The Wend
by MaijiMary Huang
Summary: A collection of standalone stories based on the Dias and Claude ending. The 20th Wend. much later at night, in his sleep, he murmurs: i'm sorry.
1. The Wend

**_PREAMBLE: _**_**The Wend **is a collection of writings (poetry, drabbles, ficlets) that revolve around the idea of Dias and Claude travelling together on Expel after the end of the game. For the most part, none of the pieces are connected. They're my attempt at exploring a number of themes using many different styles and perspectives. This is my firsttime trying something like this; I would greatly appreciate any C&C! Thanks for taking the time to read this :3_

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**The Wend**

by Maiji/Mary Huang

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The last thing I want  
is a journey with a destination.  
I've been too often disillusioned. And you  
offer no illusions: traceless and travelling,  
only haunting the land. 

I've written stories about wandering  
for no one to read. I've imagined it  
countless times – a wind, or perhaps a tide:  
a ghost of no consequence, homeless and transient.

I'm only a child, I know. But I would be a ghost  
with you. I've never wished for anyone to hold my hand.

Let me walk in kind beside you.  
Let me keep pace alongside you.  
Let me leave footprints matching footprints,  
countless steps,  
fading in the sand.

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	2. Without Pain

**Without Pain**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

It's ugly and red, like all wounds from the battlefield. The particular wound in question is long and deep - not deep enough to trouble him terribly at this stage, but enough to ensure a lingering scar for years to come. It's one of those things you learn from experience. Several times over. 

"How is it?" the focus of his attention asks, straining to see.

"How do you feel?" he replies, not looking up.

"Like crap," comes the laconic answer. "I wish I didn't feel anything."

"If you didn't feel anything, you'd be dead."

"Oh, right." Claude manages a rasping cough of a laugh. "I guess it's not too bad, considering- And you still haven't answered my question."

Dias pauses in his ministrations. "Given time, it will probably fester. The best thing to do would be to cauterize it."

"Wh-" The other swordsman straightens, half-throwing himself forward from the trunk he was propped against. "_Cauterize_ it?" Claude sputters, and nearly chokes. "It's - not - _that_ bad, is it?"

Dias is unmoved. "If you can panic like that, you'll be fine."

"You-" Comprehension dawns. Claude sighs and shakes his head. "Your jokes are awful." He slumps back against the tree and watches the mercenary resume his work. "It's still going to hurt like hell, isn't it."

It's a statement, not a question, and Dias sees no reason to respond. Because in a few moments, it does. And apparently it really does, because Claude swears up a storm; even Dias is slightly impressed by the colourful use of language. Finally Claude bites down on his lip so hard it wells up red, and turns his head away.

Later, when the patient is more coherent and making himself comfortable on a bed of cloaks, Dias sees fit to comment. "That was quite a performance," he observes. "You might want to save a few of those for future reference."

"Well, the last time something like this happened, I went unconscious the next second and Rena was around," Claude counters from his position on the ground, maintaining a good humour in his eyes.

Dias is unnettled by the not-so-subtle rib. "So is that your excuse?"

"I think," Claude muses, "as technology develops, there's a lower tolerance for pain. Back on Earth, I mean. They've removed the need to endure it." He grimaces as he shifts, then grins in spite of himself. "That would be my excuse."

"Whatever happened to survival of the fittest?" Dias inquires, just a little sardonic.

His companion smiles wanly, shakes his head. "We made that obsolete," he answers. "Anesthetics, painkillers … I don't think most people know real pain. Only … discomfort."

It sounds like a cozy world. An easy world. Dias says as much.

"It's a sanitized world," Claude shoots back. "Flat and cold. You might like it there." And before Dias can say anything else, he rolls over and fakes slumber, forcing the other swordsman to take the night watch. The corner of Dias' mouth twitches. The injury would have already ensured it, of course, but there is a gleeful, almost childish satisfaction in willful ignoring.

There's nothing else to do now. So Dias picks up his sword and keeps watch. It's more listening than watching, really; even when his eyes adjust to the stars' light, he can only see the faintest of shadows upon shadows. The wind teases them into rustling movement, a more reliable guide.

He watches the whistling grass. He watches the whispering forest. He watches the slumbering figure, who despite his discomfort has actually managed some semblance of sleep. He watches, and he thinks about a world without pain, a world that is far away.

And he entertains the idea that maybe he likes it that way.

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Author's Notes: According to the file date, I apparently started with this just over a month ago, which is odd because it feels like I've been struggling with it for much longer. Ignore my lack of knowledge in regards to medieval medicine. x3;; 


	3. Morrow

**Morrow**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

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He's not quite sure of the moment he actually wakes up, much as how one is never quite aware of the exact moment when sleep overtakes the senses. Before he is conscious of breathing, the darkness is wound about him, warm and numb and tight as a blanket; and without a pause, the darkness is before him, above him, the chilled air tingling sharply against his awareness. The blood in his joints stirs to life, cries from being forced to flow again. The real darkness has a much colder tint to it, he thinks. He squints, his eyes still pulling against sleep, and makes out a block of blackness hovering over him. 

_Late, _he thinks reflexively, before his mind is fully awake. With an instinctive start, he rolls to the edge, arm reaching out through the sheets, over the side of the bed, searching blindly on the floor. His hand finds cloth, only cloth; a thick, heavily textured fabric, handspun and handwoven like something made centuries ago.

Then he remembers: he doesn't have it anymore. Because he doesn't need it anymore. Because it doesn't work anymore. Because he left it behind, far behind, back in the village, hidden and buried deep in the forest somewhere so that it could never be found.

He sighs at his lapse of memory, and draws back into the sheets.

Sometimes it is easy to forget where he is. But sometimes it is his only way of remembering.

Sometimes it is his only way of remembering that Earth was real.

That Earth is real, he corrects himself. With each passing day, it becomes harder to believe that.

The figure over him remains, unmoving, only watching his motion. He pulls the heavy, coarse fabric closer to his body, trying to recapture the senseless warmth of his slumber, and closes his eyes again before his vision can fully adjust.

"Good morning," he whispers, though he knows it could still be nighttime for all he is aware of. He does not need to see to see what really matters.

Breaths pass, and he senses movement in the darkness, past his eyelids. The air changes slightly as a warmth reaches out. Fingers, long and strong, rougher than the blanket fibres, slide against the side of his head, running slowly through his hair. They curl gently, calloused palm cupping his cheek, as though they always belonged there, holding him like that.

"I'm too lazy to get up," he says, not much louder than a whisper.

"No one asked you to." The voice is deep, but somewhat faint, with traces of indulgence.

"I'm glad."

The hand leaves his cheek. He considers opening his eyes, but nothing comes of the consideration. He pictures the tall form leaning over him, arm still outstretched, red eyes studying his face.

Then the hand smacks him lightly, twice, upside the head.

He opens his eyes at last, a startling blue even in the darkness. He blinks, eyes beginning to water at the strain of trying to find a source of light. He pulls himself up, his left arm supporting his body in a half-sitting position. "On second thought," he mumbles, rubbing at his eye with his free hand, "I think I prefer asking."

"Of course you do." The deep voice is louder, clearer, with its familiar mocking lilt.

The edges of his lips curl upwards. He shifts, sitting up against the crooked bedboard, the wood squealing protestingly under him. "Good morning," he repeats, more audibly this time.

"It's not morning yet."

"Oh." His reply is quiet and matter-of-fact. He considers it for one drowsy moment, then opens his mouth. _So why,_ he wants to ask, _did you wake me up,_ but what comes out instead is, "Are we in a hurry?"

"No."

"Don't we have to go somewhere?"

"We're not in a hurry."

Weight sinks down beside him, and he leans, his head resting on the broad shoulder. The air is still crisp, but the darkness has lost some of its chill. On nights like this one, fading nights with pale mornings seeping in at the edges, waking up for no reason doesn't bother him at all.

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Author's Notes: I think this is as mushy as I can get. This is actually the oldest of all the wends, dated late 2005, but I don't remember much about writing it, which is weird. After rereading it (usually a very awkward experience for me, going through older work - ugh), I couldn't find much I wanted to change or edit. It ends up being more than a little confusing and rambly and abrubtly-ending-y, but there's an odd flow to it which I didn't want to disrupt. 


	4. anamnesisanamnesiac

**anamnesisanamnesiac**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

**

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**

_I.case._

Doesn't it bother you, how faulty human memory is. The things you did a day ago. Two days ago. Or three or four or more. What you thought of the weather when you woke up in the morning. What you ate in the afternoon. The last thing you said before you both fell asleep. All inconsequential. All ordinary. All run-of-the-mill, unexceptional, unremarkable things that happen day after day after day. You forget them the second they are completed. And yet you can remember things, important things, things that you don't want to remember, things that took place years and years ago, as clear as the instant they happened. Or can you.

The forest. So close to the village. Where you were going. What happened next. Feet running. Bodies falling. And the next ten years. You spent them searching. Hunting bandits. Hunting thieves. Every one you see, you think: it was him. Or was it him. It could have been him. One day it stopped mattering.

What you can remember haunts you. What you can't remember haunts you more.

Your sister. Only a child. You remember her name. Her hair. Her eyes. The colour. They were the same as yours. They must have been. Or were they. And your father's, your mother's. Their faces, the sound of their voices. You try to think about them, focus them in your mind, sharpen their features. You try to remember them doing things, things other than lying on the ground and crying and dying and dead. You loved them. You know you loved them.

All you have are impressions.

He tells you a story, one of his little fantastic stories. About an invention. A box. It catches pictures. Moving pictures, with sounds. He remembers its name, its oldest ancestor, its ancestor's name even, Latin he calls it, that nobody uses anymore. You think privately that if you had one of those boxes, you could have had pictures. Pictures of people. Pictures of things. Pictures of people doing run-of-the-mill, unexceptional, unremarkable things like waking up in the mornings and complaining about the weather and eating uncooked food and saying forgettable things before they fall asleep. Ordinary and inconsequential. Then you wouldn't have to wonder. About faces. And eye colour. And the sound of a voice. The box would catch everything. The box would save everything with its strange magic.

No, no, he says. It's not magic. Anyone could make it. With tools. With science. So how do you make this box, you ask.

He couldn't say. He can't remember.

_II.history._

When does your life begin. Does it go as far back as the moment you are conceived. Or is it when you are born. Or does it begin when you begin to remember. When something new becomes the norm, slowly growing under your skin and rooting itself there before you even notice. When you change. When your world changes. Your life. Another life. Someone else's life. And if you don't remember. And what it means if you don't remember.

You tell him stories, stories from your former life. Yesterday it was flying ships. The day before it was skyscraping buildings. Today it's a story about a picture-taking box. Sometimes he asks questions. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he drifts off, lost in some memory of his own. Sometimes you're not sure if he really believes you.

Sometimes you're not sure if you really believe yourself.

Why you bother. What you want. What do you want. Maybe you want someone to hear them. To remember them. To confirm them. So you tell him your stories, and let him ask you questions. Questions like what. Or why. Or how. You know how to push a button, how to identify a component, sometimes you even know how to take it apart and put it back together. Beyond that, you don't know how. And no one can show you. How. How do you know what you know. How can you be sure. You're not sure. It bothers you when it comes easily. It bothers you when it doesn't. How do you know you're not distorting things, changing things, making things up off the top of your head.

And you wonder why. Why you retain some things, and not others. Like numbers. And letters. Long strings of numbers and letters, one meaningless little bit following another meaningless little byte in a meaningless little line. Numbers like one-four-four-nine-two-three-five-six-eight-seven-three-three-one-two-nine-two-g ee. Useless now. Pointless now. Why do you remember. Why do you remember these, and why do other things fade.

You wonder what else you're not remembering.

You think about the box. You think about what. And why. And how. How you can remember everything except the most important thing. You think about your stories. About boxes that catch pictures. About buildings that scrape the sky. About ships that can fly. You used to fly in one. Your mother flew in one. Your father flew in one. You want someone to tell you about them, about all of them, before they fade.

He couldn't tell. He's never seen a flying ship.

_  
III. forgotten._

He watches him when he thinks he's sleeping. It terrifies him to think that one day he might not remember.

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Author's Notes: Let's just ignore the gameplay existence of the Ririca, because high-tech cameras in an undeveloped civilization just make soooo much sense (/sarcasm). Oh, and the fact that your entire party sees the Calnus before it explodes (not that anyone actually points to it and says "BY THE WAY, THIS IS A FLYING SHIP"). This was sparked by a recent bout of nostalgia, looking at my old LiveJournal entries from high school and being surprised at how I interacted with some people so much, but couldn't even picture their faces anymore. Although I'm still not quite sure how all of that turned into this rather paranoid ... thing oO 

Many thanks to Elysian Stars and Faeana for feedback on stylistics.


	5. Sometime, someplace, somewhere

**Sometime, someplace, somewhere, wonder is rediscovered.**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

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I rest my chin in my palm and look out the window. It's an unbelievably exciting view, if your idea of excitement is gunmetal-gray skies and watching dirty water dribble down from the roof. The storm from last night has faded to a drizzle, but there's still an ... _aftertaste_ of rain. That's the best way I can describe it. Everything looks and feels and smells muggy, inside and out. The tavern is crowded like a busy barroom, thick with conversation and the clanging of plates. Every so often I can hear chickens fighting in the stockyard, but I'm grateful for any fresh air I can get from the open shutters. The room seems almost as though it's honed in on this one spot, everything else around our table blurry and out of focus. It's always been like this. I can't help it that my mind tends to wander; the more people there are, the more distant I feel. 

My hand starts to grow numb from the weight of my head, so I shift to my other arm to keep the blood flowing. I throw a glance across the table; he's already digging into his meal. I turn my attention onto my own food. I honestly don't even remember what I ordered. I think it's supposed to be a soup, or a stew, or a gruel, or _something_. It looks like ... like ... mush, for lack of a better term. Like a horrendously overgrown amoeba crawled into my bowl and only managed to melt halfway. I poke at it with my spoon and consider various methods of putting it out of its misery. Finally, I try to avoid looking at it. After all, it's the taste that counts, not how it looks. Unless it tastes the way it looks, which of course happens to be the case here. I slog through it anyways; we can't afford to be picky. Things could always be worse.

Like steak. I used to love steak – until I remembered why they call it an underdeveloped civilization. Oh, I'm sure I could find a decent one out there, if I wanted to forgo all my meagre possessions and the remainder of my meals for a whole year. At least. Someday somebody will invent gas stoves, or maybe a barbecue will come first, and I'll love it again. I can only hope. No wonder Dias is such a big fan of chicken skewers. They're fast, portable and even if they're awful at least it's over and done with quickly.

I wonder how long it'll be until stoves. It wasn't really something they covered in the history courses back in my studies at the Academy. Only the huge, one-shot, world-shaking events were discussed. Things like wars, religions, and the discovery of anything that drives one or shatters the other. Never something small, mundane and practical that holds a world together on a day-to-day basis. Like the invention of kitchen utensils and cooking appliances, for example.

It's funny how it's the little things that stay with you when everything else is gone. Like the taste of your food or some useless fact you learned in school. I guess when you live it, you have to keep your perspective constrained or life will overwhelm you. It's so easy to lose sense of the bigger picture in places like this, in this creaky little inn with its drab furnishings and its miniature animal farm in the back. If the bigger picture even applies anymore, I mean. The world seems so much smaller now, and it's strange to to think that there was, or is, anything before or besides Expel.

More than that, it's hard to imagine that one day this place might become something like Earth. It's even harder to imagine that it once _was_ something like Earth - no, something surpassing Earth. It's hundreds, thousands of years down the line - or millions of years the other way, depending on how you want to look at it. Scientific and technological developments vary, of course, but there are always parallels. I remember the time we visited the Lingan observatory. There were charts hanging all over the walls and draped across the impressive-looking desks, astronomy charts that resembled primitive versions of the star maps generated by the _Calnus_' computers.

Suddenly, it becomes the most important thing in the world for me to know. To know what's coming, or what's left. For some reason it aggravates me to think of Expel as anything like a Federation planet.

I clear my throat. "Hey, Dias," I start, then my brain freezes. I pull frantically at mental straws for something that wouldn't sound too outlandish. "Uh … do you think the world is round or flat?"

His food pauses en route to his mouth; so much for my natural segue. He looks at me like there's a lunatic in the room. "What are you talking about? Of course it's round."

I'm startled by the certainty of his answer, and maybe he misinterprets my reaction as dismay because his expression softens. "Why do you ask?" he says, lowering the skewer.

"Er ..." I hesitate. "How do you know that?"

He wipes his mouth, picks up a small knife, and starts etching little landforms into the wood, marking each one with an X. "This is El. Here's Tenue. Clik. Hilton." The table begins to look like a treasure map. I wonder if it's okay to vandalize furniture like this, but even I can tell it's old and beaten-up furniture, not even well-made, and no one, including the innkeeper, seems to care. "Ships from the Port of Clik sail to Tenue on El. So do vessels from Hilton. These are the routes they take." He draws his finger along the table to illustrate three paths towards the X of El's harbour. Two paths ends at the edge of the table, restarting on the other side. "How would any of this be possible if the world were flat?"

Oh. Right. I'd forgotten about the ports. It's a really stupid question, now that I think about it, especially considering all the travelling we've been doing. "So who discovered this?" I lean forward, try to cover up my embarrassment by making ridiculous references to things he would have no clue about. "Was his name Columbus? Or Christopher?"

"How should I know?" Dias takes a swig out of his mug. "Some Lacourian sailor. This was ages ago."

I'm not quite sure what this bit of news means to me, if I'm disappointed, or disgruntled, or what, so I sit back and pick at what's left of my food. Another thought occurs to me. I figure I already stuck one foot in, so there's no point in holding back on this one. "Okay then," I say. "Do you think the sun goes around Expel or the other way around?"

He fixes me with a look that suggests I'm a persistent child he can't shake loose. Which probably isn't all that far from the truth. "If," he replies, in an overly long and drawn out manner, "by sun, you are refering to that bright, burning object in the sky, I do believe it moves. But perhaps we should check next time, just to make certain."

I press, just to make certain. "So the sun goes around Expel?"

He gets impatient. "Yes," he answers curtly.

Yes! I don't even realize I've said the word out loud until the silence in the inn becomes almost deafening. It takes me a few moments to notice my fingers are clenched into a fist, with the spoon still in it, head up. I'm sitting there, staring at my hand and wondering how exactly this happened, when I hear the clicking of a tongue.

"Were you dropped on your head as a child?" he asks.

For some reason, this comment strikes me as the most hilarious thing in the universe. It's the way he says it, combined with my spoon in my fist, the little treasure map placemat carved on the table, the remains of the sad dying mush in my bowl, and to top it all off, the staring locals. To my dismay, I start laughing. And to my horror, I can't stop.

I hear feet shuffling and a seat being pushed back. My only coherent thought, as Dias hauls me up by the arm and tows me towards the exit, is that it's a good thing we already paid. Unfortunately, he's focused more on getting me out of the tavern and less on getting me past obstacles. It's all I can do to avoid careening into customers and furniture. At one point everything comes to an graceless stop when my cloak gets caught in the door. Needless to say, between trying to catch my breath and controlling my compulsive laughter, it doesn't help much at all.

Eventually he manages to untangle me, and shoves me out the back of the inn in the general direction of the stables. Somehow I have enough presence of mind to put one foot in front of the other, and avoid the fat speckled hens pecking at the ground. I reach the gate and lean against the fence to stabilize myself, half-coughing and wheezing.

Finally, just when I feel like I'm on my last breath and almost back to normal, one of the horses decides it's a perfect time to relieve itself. Right in front of us. It's not embarrassed about it, either, tossing its tail and giving everything with eyes a showy display of equine rear. It's too much, and I lose it. Again. I collapse on the squeaking gate. I guess it surprises the chickens or something, because they start flapping around and screaming as if the sky has fallen, kicking up more grain and dirty rainwater than you could ever imagine.

I feel horribly guilty for putting him through this, but I almost wish I could see the whole thing, now, in third person. See Dias standing there with the greatest expression on his face, a brilliant mix of annoyance and exasperation and mortification, trying so hard to be stoic, with the chickens squawking and flapping and dancing and running feather-dusting circles around him, and me cracking up like an idiot, hugging and hanging onto the gate so I don't slip and fall over into the crap or land on a chicken. For a second I consider beating myself senseless against the stalls to save Dias the trouble, and then it occurs to me that he might not appreciate having to drag me around for the rest of the day, and finally the inanity of my entire thought process hits me and I just keep laughing and laughing and laughing.

To his credit, Dias doesn't say a word throughout the entire thing. He just stands there and waits until I've worn myself out, calming down enough to stand up on my own two feet without crashing like a drunkard into a random object. Then he heads into the stalls, carefully sidestepping the horse's offering, and brings out our rides.

We saddle up and mount in silence. My face and stomach hurt, but there's a strange kind of euphoria. I'm not sure why; really, at this point, I'm just grateful I can do what I need to do and get on the horse without falling to the ground in spasms.

When I draw up alongside Dias, I notice parts of his cloak are covered with chicken feed. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent anything remotely resembling a titter from getting out. "It's a beautiful day, Dias," I tell him, and pat him on the arm.

He pulls a feathery fluff out of his hair. "I'll take your word for it."

We head off. Behind us, the animals compose themselves and return their attention to their food. The sky is still gray and the ground is still damp. It smells raw, I think. Unrefined. Undeveloped.

_New. _

Everything is new again. Even the chickens.

* * *

Author's Notes: What the – this turned out way longer than it was supposed to be, and gave me 23749327432 times more trouble than I ever expected. I started off so happy with the idea, but then it started going all over the place, and I kept chopping things up and moving them up and down, and it ended up really pissing me off. My first completed attempt at first person perspective. Technically the sun and the earth orbit each other, but let's not bother with technicalities (of which I'm sure there are many). 

Thanks to Elysian Stars and Luna for remembering and confirming the name of El's port. Also thanks to my sis for reminding me the earth is round xD

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	6. Fool

**Fool**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

_"... If it were me, I'd just ignore them. He doesn't feel right unless he helps. He'll protect you to the end even if he's wounded himself."_

* * *

"Stop it," he said. 

Dias glanced up, bemused, from his seat across the small room.

"I said stop it," Claude repeated from the bed, his voice hoarse.

He smiled faintly in spite of himself. "You're delirious."

"For your information, I think I'd know if I was." There was a pause. "Okay, maybe I wouldn't, but I'm pretty sure I'm not delirious - not yet anyways." He coughed. "And I know you can hear me. Stop it."

He lowered his head, turning his attention back to the flickering lamp on the table. "You _are_ delirious. I'm not doing anything."

"You're not _saying_ anything," Claude corrected. "You've been sitting there for hours. When you don't say anything, you're obviously thinking too much, and it's not healthy. I ought to know."

Dias folded his arms. "You have quite the mouth for an invalid," he muttered.

"That's because the invalid is not in a good mood," came the retort. "At least I'm not in traction."

Dias frowned slightly; it was another one of those odd terms Claude often peppered his speech with, like _machine_ or _holo_ or _rpg_. He'd slowly begun to drop the strange words, but every so often they drifted back in, like incessant insects.

There was another cough. The bed creaked, causing him to look up again, in time to see Claude awkwardly propping himself up, wincing.

"Don't-" Dias started, almost angrily, half-rising from his chair, but Claude raised a hand to stop him.

"You listen, " he said, trying to look the older man in the eye. He chewed on his lip. "It was my own fault," he finally sighed. "You should be telling me off for being a moron, because I'm the one who charged over like an idiot, thinking they were in your blind spot."

Even in the failing light, Dias could still see the bandages, ribboned ghosts wrapping around the torso, a limb, a cut on the face. "That's a plain faced lie, and we both know it, " he answered – or that was what he would have said, if his companion hadn't seen it coming in his eyes and snapped, "Don't be a retard."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Claude fell silent. Then he laughed quietly, hesitantly. "I can't believe I said that, to you, of all people."

Dias gave up trying to argue the issue. "Lie down, be quiet and get some rest, " he commanded, glad he was able to finish a sentence at last. "Otherwise you're really going to slow us down tomorrow. And Tria be damned if I have to haul you anywhere."

Claude chuckled. "Now that's what I'm talking about," he said as he lay back down, sounding immensely satisfied.

Dias turned away. "I get the point. Shut up and sleep already."

"Yes, Mother."

"You're a fool," he said mildly, staring into the dying lampfire. But he might have been talking to himself.

* * *

_"What kind of strength do you think I have?"_

* * *

Author's Notes: I've been rereading game scripts lately, and the idea came during my hour-and-a-half bus ride to work. Many thanks to Elysian Stars for beta-ing! 


	7. A Long Road

**A Long Road (everything is an allusion)**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

if birds are born to fly and sing  
then man is made to weep and dream.

_Mines are strange creatures. A mine is a man-made structure, imposed upon an unpredictable environment and enforced in response to its dispositions. Built with a singular goal in mind, it slowly grows into a sprawling, tangled mess of passages in which one can easily become lost._

_There is an old mining town located near the southern tip of Cross. The distance between Salva Drift and the neighbouring village is only a few days' ride, but the road to or from Salva Drift to any other city is quite long. The aura of the town itself is similarly intimate yet distant. Despite being bustling with activity, there remains a feeling of dust-covered isolation._

_Mining is a strange pursuit. One works constantly with other labourers, and yet the task can be the loneliest in the world. It is a way of life for some, and becomes a way of life for others. It is often a stepping stone to a more desirable place, but oftentimes the next stone never materializes. Perhaps it is a cosmic joke that those who dig deep in the earth carry memories of such lofty dreams. _

_Mining is a dangerous pursuit. The poison deep within the earth is released, seeping slowly into the air, a silent and invisible death. Thus a canary is brought deep below the surface. When the poison rises, the songbird stops singing, for it can no longer breathe. It dies soon after. _

_The air in Salva Drift is quietly caustic. It solidifies into a powder, forming a warm, sticky blanket that coats the lungs and gradually tightens, sears, and eventually suffocates. For those who are new, visiting, or simply passing through, it can be quite a shock. For those who have lived here long enough, it is barely noticeable._

Somewhere beneath hundreds of worn feet trodding the hard Salvan ground:

1. A small yellow bird tied to a string has been lost in an empty mine and no one notices. It had grown so accustomed to the string that it rarely wandered off by itself and they took it for granted that it would always be there.

2. The man is having a difficult time finding his way out of the tunnel and he curses himself for his poor sense of direction. He suddenly lost sight of the entrance to the mine shaft only a short while ago but it feels like he has been searching forever. The others who were with him have all disappeared. Every so often he hears voices but they are always too far away. His lamp is running out of fuel and it is beginning to grow dark.

3. Much time passes. It is now too late to search for the bird. There is little chance it has flown away as its wings were clipped a long time ago.

4. He finds a canary hopping among the rocks and wonders how it managed to make its way deeper into the mine. Someone has tied a second string to its other leg for no discernable purpose. He is surprised to discover that it can still sing.

5. It is an easy enough task but it takes him a while to catch the yellow bird. He unties both strings and sets it back on the ground. It lingers a short distance away and does not run off. He throws it a bread crumb for no reason other than the fact that its survival up to this point is deserving of admiration.

6. More time passes. It is very dark and he can barely see anything that is not directly in front of him. The bread crumb seems to have sustained the canary longer than any one bread crumb should be able to. The tunnel does not seem as long as it was when he first started wandering in the Salvan mines.

7. It is now completely dark. There are no other options but the thought that the bird is not alone leaves him oddly content.

8. It is entirely possible that they will one day find a way out. In fact it will be happening very soon.

9. He does not yet know it but the yellow bird is about to make its final performance.

_It is a long road but one thing is certain._

Tell me how far you imagine the distance of the exit to be.

* * *

Author's Notes: Weird dream about actually writing this … and the end result looks almost NOTHING like what I started with. Don't mind my technical inaccuracies xD; My sis noted that I could take out the names of the town and the continent and it would be completely unrecognizable as an SO2 fic. True; I thought the analogies might have been overly blatant and obvious ... but perhaps not? 


	8. Memento

**Memento**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

The first time he saw the scar, he knew exactly where it came from. Despite this fact, when his gaze first fell upon it, there had been a muted stirring of surprise in his gut. Pale and white, the scar ran at a slight angle: a long, thinning line across the breastbone and down the abdomen. It appeared an old wound, but he knew accelerated healing had helped it. 

It could have been guilt-laced denial. Or it could have been some perverse sense of curiosity that compelled him to ask about it.

Claude had stared blankly at him for a handful of seconds before following his line of sight. He had looked down at himself, blinking as though he'd only just noticed its presence, his arms still folded and tangled into the shirt he'd just removed. He had lifted his head again, smiling a faint version of that ever-present smile of his, the one that responded mildly to almost any offence with _What? It's nothing._

"From the tournament," Claude had answered simply, voice and eyes expressing no need for further elaboration.

Years later, in the dark, he would hold that scar, his arms wrapped securely around its sleeping owner, a slim back tucked against his body. His cheek would nestle against the soft locks of hair, his hands feeling him breathe, chest rising and falling. He would trace his fingers up and down the smooth skin, alongside the edge of its interruption, and he would think about what a perfect, clean-cut analogy it was for his life: joys, failings, sins and all.

* * *

Author's Notes: I don't understand why I end up writing so many of these things from Dias' perspective. This probably deserves an award of some sort for actually staying within the constraints of the original idea – in terms of length, anyways – and not turning into some rambling monster the way my stuff usually goes. 


	9. Travelling With You

**Travelling With You**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

He crouched down until it was at eye level, his hands clutching the fabric at his knees. He peered at it intently, getting a sense of it from every angle, confounded by its simple yet strange design. It resembled a small, flat, whimsically-decorated hammer. A thin handle was attached to a wide, circular frame, fabric stretched tight across either face, with strings on both sides that ended in shining, pellet-shaped beads. 

It still didn't make any sense. Not that there was anything wrong with not making sense _per se_, particularly considering the nature of the object – but the desire to understand how something worked had been burned into him a long time ago, a fixation ingrained.

"I don't get it," he said out loud – not loudly, merely an observational remark that hung in the air.

The vendor, who had been quietly watching the two men the entire time, blinked behind his spectacles and rubbed at the side of his bearded face. He smiled at them. It was an open, watery, nervous sort of smile, the kind an elderly artisan might throw out when faced with an oddly awkward situation that he had never encountered before.

Having a pair of mercenaries loitering at his toymaker's stall certainly qualified.

"There's nothing to 'get'," the partner replied, maintaining a safe distance between himself and the table. There was an impatient edge to his voice as he tried to find something else to focus his attention on. The best he could do was a wall of miniature swords, their edges sanded down to smooth, child-safe bevels.

"I mean I don't understand." The first man got up, lightly stretching a cramped leg. "How does it work?"

A sigh. "You make the strings hit the flat of the stick, like a drum."

He picked it up, half-turning towards his companion. "You mean like this?" he asked, shaking it vigorously in the other man's general direction. The pellets flailed madly like fat, dizzy bees.

"No," the other man responded, reflexively reaching out and plucking the instrument from his grasp. "Like this." He rolled it between his fingers with ease, the spinning motion twirling the strings back and forth, beads hitting the covered frame with a rapid, manic rhythm.

The younger man watched with interest. "Oh, I see," he said after several seconds. In the background, the toymaker coughed.

This seemed to jar the demonstrator awake. He realized what he was doing, a grown man with a child's plaything, and quickly set it back down like a hot potato.

A small giggle bubbled up from near their feet, and the two swordsmen look down. A little girl with unravelling braids and a smudged face stared up at them, her thumb in her mouth. She couldn't have been more than four or five.

Claude grinned and waggled his fingers at her, then nodded at the craftsman. "Thank you very much for your time," he said, and tugged Dias away, the mercenary glaring at his gloved hand as though it had betrayed him.

--

Screaming children weaved in and out of the throng, waving banners and edibles. The man on stilts was tossing and catching an array of colourful scarves, eggs and glass bottles, all the while singing something incomprehensible at the top of his lungs. He was only one of a myriad of carnival performers, the others lacking his inescapable stature. Even from their position, a short distance away from the edge of the crowd, they could still see him over the heads of the onlookers.

A hypothetical 'they', really, as Dias was sitting at an angle, his back to the spectacle. He had spent the past few minutes complaining that the noise was giving him a headache, but Claude suspected it was more out of a matter of principle than anything else.

After a few moments, he leaned forward and pulled out a small book from within his cloak, unrolling the animal hide and tugging out a bit of charcoal that was wrapped inside it. He flipped past the used pages, dog-eared sheets filled with dates and notes indecipherable to anyone else who might pick up the journal. At last he found a blank section, and proceeded to sketch out the scene before him, the charcoal bit dancing lightly across the surface.

After a while it strayed, moving from a doodle of the juggler to another empty space on the page. It skipped out an exaggerated scrawl that bore a passable resemblance to the figure at his side. The point trailed off at the shoulder with a flourish, then wavered, hesitating.

Claude flipflopped the charcoal between his fingers, its ends tapping the paper absently. "Did you know," he said suddenly, "I once wanted to run away and join the circus?"

Dias made a noise in the back of his throat, a sound halfway between a snigger and a hacking cough. "You certainly would have looked like you belonged."

"Maybe. But it makes sense, you know." He idly filled in the shading on the cloak collar as he spoke. "It's an imaginary world. It's attractive. Most people go through a rebellious phase where they want to get away from it all, go underground and run wild and free and whatever. And what better place to run away to? Everyone looks so happy, having no rules and doing the most amazing things."

"Maybe," Dias replied noncommittally. "So what stopped you?"

"My being about six years old, I think. It was winter, and I couldn't put on my snowsuit by myself."

Claude paused, listening to the muffled sound of what was probably a leather-covered palm smacking a forehead. "So yeah, that passed," he continued, scribbling merrily away. "Then, I wanted to be a writer."

"Ah, yes." He could hear the smirk in the older man's voice. "I'm familiar with your work."

"Hey," Claude retorted mildly, dropping the rudimentary pencil back into his lap and crossing his arms against his chest in mock offense. "Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it's not good. In fact, I would say _because_ you don't understand it, that would mean-"

"I 'get' it," Dias interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, obviously recognizing where this was headed. "If you couldn't experience it in reality, at least you could create it in fiction."

"Something like that. Hey, I'm impressed."

There was the rustling of fabric. "A pointless exercise, don't you think? Illusions are illusions."

"Well … yes and no," he answered slowly. "It's more than just wish-fulfillment. In one sense, dreams can shape reality."

Dias said nothing, and Claude smiled lamely. "If I think about it some more," he offered, "I could probably put it in less cheesy terms, but the idea is the same."

"… No doubt." The other man shifted his position, as though finding it suddenly uncomfortable. "And when did you decide you wanted to become an artist?" he said, looking over his shoulder at the open book resting on the other man's leg. "Because I should tell you now, there's absolutely no hope whatsoever."

Claude laughed, not bothering to fight the blatant attempt at changing the topic. "Yeah, well, if I keep plugging away, you never know – I might find I've got a hidden talent for it or something." He held the journal at arm's length, inspecting the drawings critically. "It _is_ pretty sad, isn't it?"

He took up the charcoal again, his expression becoming positively gleeful. "You know what the problem is?" he declared. "Your hair isn't done right. All it needs is some fixing up. How 'bout I just add some braids and- ow! _Mother_- Okay! I won't touch it!"

With an air of smugness, Dias released the crushing death grip he had on the younger man's arm, clearly satisfied with the results of his mad scramble. Claude rubbed at his wrist. "Freaking superhuman strength," he sniffled affectedly, then bent over to scoop up the fallen items. "So what about you? What did you want to be when you grew up?"

His companion frowned and studied his boots. "Can't think of anything."

"Nothing?"

"… No."

"There must have been something,"

Dias merely shrugged. Claude mentally cast about for options, not wanting the conversation to drift away and die off in a dead end.

"I could see you in the performing arts," he finally decided, somewhat arbitrarily.

The other man raised an eyebrow, but – to Claude's surprise – raised no immediate objections. "Oh really?"

"Sure," he answered, slightly taken aback. "Maybe an actor in a travelling show. The dashing lead with his smouldering good looks, who saves the day and gets the girl. Or you could do stand-up."

The older man rolled his eyes and shook his head at the suggestion, a wry and vaguely skeptical smile on his face. He folded his arms and leaned back slightly. "And what might you be?"

"Huh?" Claude answered intelligently, caught off guard for the second time in as many moments. He scratched his head. "Uh, the sidekick, probably," he speculated. "No, wait – we should find Ashton and start up a sword dancing chorus line!"

Dias snorted. "This is absurd."

"What?" he wheedled, milking the shtick for all it was worth. "It's not like you have any other responsibilities." He slapped his thigh in exaggeration, rasping his voice and mimicking somebody's senile old grandfather. "You're still young! It's not too late!"

"For what?" the older man countered. "Indulging in foolish childhood fantasies?"

Claude straightened up and smiled. "Exactly." He chuckled. "And who knows, Rena and everyone else might be inspired to join us."

The older man shook his head again. "You're joking."

It was Claude's turn to shrug. "Only half?" he ventured.

Dias fell silent again. Claude resisted the urge to re-open his book and continue his squiggles, instead amusing himself with the ridiculous notion that the other man was actually considering it.

Without warning, Dias glanced up. His next words came quite out of nowhere: "Bowman would be the quack."

Claude blinked, then burst out laughing. "You're right," he managed to choke out in a strangled voice. "He would. He's always pulling things out of his ass."

After the younger man had wound down, Dias said bluntly, "It would never happen."

"Hell no," his companion agreed. "But I'd pay money to see it." He got up, the other swordsman following suit. "Anyways, it was great that we were able to stop here. It's not every day I get to see a festival in Cross Kingdom."

Dias cricked his neck. "We still have time if you want to look around some more."

Claude repressed the urge to crack a joke about a disappearing headache. "That's good." He tucked the book back into the folds of his cloak. "You know what the best part about travelling with you is?" he remarked.

"What?"

He turned away. "I just said it." He shaded his eyes with one hand, squinting to see past the crowd. "Hey, are those fire-eaters? I want to get a closer look."

* * *

Author's Notes: So completely random. I just like writing interaction and stupid scenes, a la _If/Then_, but without having to worry about a bigger plot. As with most of my stuff, this didn't start out with any point at all, and it sort of found one somewhere along the line. Sort of. In one sense, this might have sprung out of the banal fact that I had too many Dias-POV wends that were taking place either at night or in the wee hours of the morning, and this one … surprise! doesn't! 

The object they're playing with at the beginning is a Chinese-style pellet drum. I had them when I was a wee la- er, when I was a kid, so on Expel it's a toy. xD

Last but not least, I have no idea how so many (horrible) in-jokes found their way into this thing, and I apologize for it.


	10. All Aboard

**All Aboard**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

It was futile. 

"Please, Dias," she said. "You're the only one strong enough."

"No."

"C'mon, Dias," he chimed in. "I can't do it by myself. I'm not that tall."

"No."

"It would make him so happy."

"Yeah, it would mean the world to him."

He groaned inwardly. They were going to win, most likely. That was the problem – well, one of several problems, actually – with coming back to the village for a visit. One Claude he could reason with, one Rena he could stall, but the two of them together, at the same time, with the same goal …

"That's ridiculous," he finally said.

"I know he wanted to come live here," Claude continued, blithely ignoring his comment, "but it's taking him time to adjust. Arlia is totally different from Lacour, you know, and he's still trying to find his place."

"He went through so much," Rena added, the sincerity in her voice almost overwhelming. "Even though it's over, it's hard to forget. This would really help take his mind off all those things. You can understand that."

He eyed the two of them, warily and wearily. "We could just pick up a book or whatever for him when we stop by Mars or Linga."

"_Dias,"_ they snapped at the exact same time, with – he swore – identical intonations and expressions.

It was, as he should have known, futile.

"We're not going to be back for a while," Claude said.

Rena pulled out her trump card. "What kind of a big brother _are _you?"

Dias crumbled under the combined assault. "Fine," he answered gruffly. "Hurry up before I change my mind."

They both beamed at him, and he blinked at the combined brightness. "Thank you, Dias," they chorused, but he had a feeling it was only a token gesture. They certainly seemed sure enough of their victory from the onset, undeterred by any of his rejections. He hadn't stood a chance.

Rena scrambled to stack the crates on top of each other, and Claude clambered up. Dias sighed and walked over, turning his back to them.

"Don't move," Claude warned, placing his hands on the older man's shoulders.

He rolled his eyes. "Do I have any choice?"

"Not really." The youth swung one leg over, then the other. Dias quickly grabbed Claude's knees with both hands to hold him in place, and stepped forward, staggering slightly as he got used to the weight.

"Wh-_whoa!"_ Claude exclaimed, trying to find his balance.

"What in Tria's name are you doing?" Dias demanded.

"Eh?" The other man paused, then let go of the fistfuls of hair. "Oh, uh, haha, sorry. It's kind of like being on a horse."

"I'll tell you what it's 'kind of like'," he growled. "This is all your fault."

"I know, I know," Claude replied. "I told the stories, I'll take the blame. You can kill me later."

Rena clapped at them. "Stop squabbling and come on!"

It was still early morning as they proceeded on the familiar trail to her house, Claude perched somewhat precariously on Dias' shoulders. Rena skipped alongside, humming merrily, her arms swinging in wide circles.

"I feel a little silly," Claude admitted.

"Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier," Dias responded, his expression wry.

Rena giggled. "I think you both look positively dashing." As they arrived at their destination, she halted suddenly. "Oh-"

Dias craned his head to look up at the second floor of the small building. The shutters were closed.

"The sounds of the forest must still be bothering him," Rena said quietly.

Claude's hands released their hold around Dias' head. "Now what?" he wondered.

"You two didn't sort this out before you dragged me into this?" Dias asked, annoyed.

"Not particularly," Claude replied, nonchalant. "It was pretty much a last minute thing. Should I call him?"

"No," the older man hissed, uncharacteristically distressed at the thought of anyone seeing him like this. Particularly not the other little brats. "Just rap on the window and get him out quickly, and we'll do one lap around the house."

"One lap? That's it?"

"That's it."

"Aw, Dias … one lap is _nothing."_

"One. Lap."

He felt Claude shift his weight, looking around for something, and automatically trying to bend over before remembering that he was about six feet off the ground. "Er, Rena, hand me that rock over there, will you?"

"This one?" She bent down and picked up some small pebble, pressing it into Claude's outstretched hand. He turned back and threw the stone at the closed window. It bounced off with a light tap.

They waited. Nothing happened.

"Try again," said Rena, handing him another rock.

"Thanks," he said, and tossed it again.

After a moment, there was a scuffling sound, followed by the creak of wooden shutters opening. Dias twisted his head again, trying to see without dislodging his passenger.

Leon stared down at them in silence.

After a few seconds, he closed his mouth, blinked and rubbed at his eyes, feline ears flicking back and forth with the motion. Then he squinted, and looked at them again.

"Beep beep," he heard Claude say. "Star cruiser _Calnus_ entering the docking bay."

Leon's eyes widened. "Big Brother Claude?"

"Want to go for a ride?" Claude asked.

"Wha …" The cat ears twitched once, twice. He looked dubious. "… Are you sure?"

"It's a lot of fun!" Rena called encouragingly.

"Don't worry," Claude reassured him. "Just grab my hand and climb on my back. Can you get closer to the window, Dias?"

Without a word, the other man turned and moved so that they were directly below Leon. He was merely grateful Claude hadn't subconconsciously continued to use riding commands and kick his legs against Dias' chest to indicate direction. After a bit more coaxing, he felt the younger man leaned slightly to the side, shifting his weight again. There was a yelp, and Dias grunted as the burden on his shoulders increased.

As soon as he was certain they were settled back in, he began to make his round.

"How exactly is this supposed to be fun?" he heard Leon demand.

"It might help," Rena suggested gently, "if you took your hands away from your eyes."

"Your suggestion makes no sense. I don't see how my removing my hands has anything to do with the purported experience of entertainment."

"What?" Claude exclaimed. "Leon, are you covering your eyes?"

"... Of course not."

"Put them down!"

"B-but-"

"You're the captain of the ship! You want us to crash into an asteroid or something? How are we supposed to navigate without your input?"

How were they indeed, Dias thought dryly.

There was a sharp gasp, and Rena clasped her hands to her chest. "Look how high you are!" She applauded with great enthusiasm, and Dias wished she wouldn't do it quite so loudly. "Isn't it fun?"

"I-it's h-high-"

"Much better," Claude said, satisfied. "Okay, Leon, I'm going to lift you up just a little bit, alright?"

The child fidgeted, balking. "I-I don't know …"

"Don't worry, the _Calnus_ is equipped with all the latest catboy-catching technology and is totally safe. I guarantee it."

The door to the house opened, and an aproned woman stepped out. "What's going on-" Westa began, stopping the second she saw them. "Oh my goodness," she exclaimed, placing her hand on her chest.

"Good morning, Mother," Rena greeted her. "We're just taking Leon out for a walk around the village. That's alright, isn't it?"

Westa stared at them in much the same way Leon had been doing earlier. The child in question, meanwhile, was now waving and squealing with delight, Claude hoisting him up and down every so often while making appropriate star cruiser sound effects - so Dias assumed, having never heard one for himself.

Westa blinked. "No, I suppose not … but … do be careful!"

"Higher higher!" Leon cried, beating his arms up and down. Dias frowned; all of the movements caused Claude to constantly adjust his position, and he in turn had to adapt to keep them all upright.

At least they were almost finished the lap, he thought, as they rounded the corner with Rena spotting alongside, Westa following a close distance behind.

And there, to Dias' utter horror, were the children of the village.

"Was this part of your plan?" he demanded.

"No," Claude responded, sounding confused. Rena stared at the two of them blankly.

"Big Brother Dias!"

"Big Brother Claude!"

"Big Sister Rena!"

They swarmed the warriors on sight, tugging at his shirt and the fabric of his pants, and – for the few that could reach them – Claude's shoes as well. He further noticed, with even greater dismay, that practically all of them were there, including Bossman's son and daughter. He hadn't even realized they were able to get up this early.

"It's Leon!"

"What are you all doing?"

"Leon's on a pony ride!"

"Horsie!"

"Pony ride! Pony ride!"

"Big Brother Dias, Big Brother Claude, I want a pony ride too!"

"I'm not a goddamned pony," Dias wanted to snarl, but because Rena was standing right next to him, he settled for grinding his teeth. He could hear Claude trying to stifle his laughter from above him.

"It's not a pony," the younger man answered. "It's a spaceship."

Something remarkably resembling a hush fell over the small crowd. The children exchanged befuddled glances.

"Space … ship?"

"Claude," said a little boy, raising his hand. Dias recognized him only as one of the refugees from Clik. "What's a speship?"

"Space-ship," Claude corrected. "It's a ship that sails in space, Ketil. You know, like the ones in Clik, only flying in the sky."

"Oh, Claude," Westa laughed. "You have such a good imagination."

Claude chuckled. "Not really."

"I want a spaceship ride!" Lucia exclaimed. The cry was instantly taken up by all of the children.

"Spaceship ride!"

"Me two!"

"Me three!"

"I want a spaceship ride!"

"Hold it!" Leon shouted from over his head. Dias had a vague flashback of the pint-sized scientist hollaring commands at soldiers and sailors at the Front Lines and the port of Hilton. "I'm the captain of the ship!"

"Awww," the group grumbled, clearly displeased.

"Leon …" Rena started.

"And I say, if you want to ride, we're going to take _turns!"_

The crowd around his feet broke into enthusiastic whoops and cheers. Dias glanced frantically at Rena, who, after a moment's hesitation, smiled and shrugged helplessly. Her expression was contrite. She stood on tiptoes and leaned close, cupping a hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry, Dias," she murmured. "He's being so generous; he's going to make so many friends. I don't want to stop him."

"Uh-oh," said Claude.

--

His shoulders and back were sore as hell and his legs felt like the jiggly slime cuisine they'd been subject to on Nede; not even Rena had been able to do much for them. But he found smug satisfaction knowing that Claude was suffering likewise, even to some degree.

"Mayor Regis will walk me home, so you don't have to move," Rena said brightly.

"That's great," replied Claude. "Because we can't."

"Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough," Dias muttered. "I don't know how much longer I can take this."

"What, those kids?" Claude teased from the opposite bed. "Worse than monsters?"

_"Much_ worse."

"Wise Men?"

"Can't even compare."

"Leon said it was the happiest day of his life," Claude laughed. "But I think I agree with you."

"Oh, stop your griping, you two," Rena scoffed. "It was fun! They all had a wonderful time. Deep down, I'm sure you both enjoyed it too."

"Enjoyed it like I enjoy being trampled by endless hordes of screaming little devils," Dias replied, slapping a fat pillow over his own face.

"You can say that because you weren't a spaceship," Claude agreed, his retort sounding somewhat muffled through the thick textile.

"Well, speaking of tomorrow," Rena continued, unfazed, "Alen's carriage will be here before midday, and we'll see you off to Salva Drift then."

"Sounds good," Claude answered.

"Good night, both of you," she said, her voice growing fainter. She was probably backing out of the room. "Sleep well and have a swift recovery."

"'Night, Rena. 'Night, Dias."

"Good night."

The lamp's already-muted glow faded into the darkness, and through their exhaustion they easily succumbed to sleep.

Before awareness fled, with faint shrieks and laughter still ringing in his ears, he mused that, once again, what Rena said was not necessarily a lie.

* * *

Author's Notes: Did most of this in early August, but put off posting for a long time. I dunno why, the whole thing felt really rushed, and I got stuck. Oh well, I suppose a bit of mindless stupidity/fluff every so often doesn't hurt anyone. XD Many thanks to Elysian, Aphe and Val for feedback (and credit for the title also goes to Val xD) 

The actual image of Leon piggybacking on Claude piggybacking on Dias, with Rena looking on, came to me … one night … IN A DREAM … well, actually it came to me during a really boring bus ride home from work. I drew it for no reason other than the fact that it amused me terribly. (The sketch is posted in The Wend link in my profile.) But after I thought about it, it actually makes a lot of sense. My god, they would make the most adorable/awesome family ever. I wish it were a real ending. In a sense, they would all be able to have what they want the most.


	11. Stormy Night

**Stormy Night**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

They screamed. Even he nearly jumped, wincing at the deafening clap of thunder. It sounded as though the entire sky were being ripped apart. 

The torn canvas above their heads did little to shelter them from the downpour, much less shield them from the noise. He heard a harsh yell from outside, and knew Dias was urging the horses on, driving the wagon faster through the storm. Claude steeled his nerves. The worst possible thing he could do now would be to lose any bit of confidence, especially in front of them.

A wheel hit something in the road and the wagon jerked hard, throwing them off-balance and causing several to cry out loud at the impact. Bracing himself against the sides, he checked to make sure they were alright.

They huddled together, whimpering and shivering, drenched to the bone, hair matted to their heads. It was all he could do _not_ to count the terrified, wide-eyed faces, to try to ignore it, to not think about the numbers, the goddamned numbers, because it wasn't important right now.

He couldn't let it be important right now.

He concentrated on stopping the shaking of the sword in his hand. The sight of it scared them, he knew, but he couldn't put it away. Not until they were out of this stretch of the woods, at the very least.

Finally it became too much for one of them, one of the ones closest to him, the wetness and the darkness and the cold and the thunder and the raw memory of recent events. She clenched her fists and eyes shut and began to wail.

"It's okay, it's okay," he consoled, wrapping his free arm around her, around as many of them as he could, as the wailing spread. "It'll be over soon. We're going to be home soon."

A small voice in the back of his mind told him that these kids were going to need a change of clothing for reasons other than the rain. Another small part in the back of his mind wanted to scream and howl along with them.

_It was a dark and stormy night,_ thought Claude, and the cliché made him want to vomit.

--

He managed to hold it in until they had retreated to the safety of the guest quarters. He even managed to wait until Dias had shut the door behind them.

Then he blew up.

"The worst part," he raged, "was that they didn't say anything. _Nothing._ They couldn't even blame me!"

He wandered the lamplit room aimlessly, trying to find something to punch, to kick, to absorb his physical anger. But everywhere he turned, he was faced with nothing more deserving of hostility than four plain walls, a small bed, a pair of wobbly chairs, and a worn, cloth-covered table with wildflowers in an old vase. They surrounded him, reminders of destitute hospitality: a gratefulness unjustified, in his mind, because of their failure. He couldn't touch anything.

Dias leaned against the door, arms folded, watching him in his fruitless search. "They had no reason to. It wasn't your fault."

He stopped pacing, whirling around to glare at his companion. The logic of the statement only spurred his blind fury. "It _was_ my fault! The bastards did it _because I was there._ To spite me. To spite both of us, goddammit."

"No." The older man shook his head once, vehemently. "They could have done it regardless. You gave them what was coming to them."

"That doesn't change anything!"

"Yes, it does. Six are alive."

He hated himself for thinking it, for saying it. "And three are dead."

"Six are alive," Dias repeated.

"_You can't say that six are worth more than the three who died!" _

The other man didn't reply immediately, merely looking away. Claude balled his hands up into useless fists, ashamed at himself for the misdirected outburst. The last sentence had drained away all his anger, leaving only an overwhelming sense of sickness and sorrow.

"I can't," Dias finally allowed. "And I can't say that three are worth more than the six who are alive."

"I know," Claude muttered, tilting his head back and pressing his fists against his closed eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. I … just wish they were all alive."

Dias rubbed one hand across his brow, then turned to face the wall. "It was my fault. I killed them."

Claude straightened. "No," he said instantly, more sure of that than anything. "That's not true."

"I was right beside you. I didn't stop them."

"No."

"Didn't I?"

"No," he said for the third time, almost pleading. "You … You _tried."_

The older man turned back, fixing him with a hard stare. "And you were twiddling your thumbs?"

He couldn't say anything. He didn't know why he was so desperate to pin the blame on himself.

The hardness in Dias' eyes faded. "This is foolish and pointless," he murmured. "The only ones responsible are dead. You must accept that. Accept that- " the mercenary paused, searching for the words. "That you can't always do everything."

Claude remained silent.

"Sometimes, you simply aren't fast enough. Or strong enough. No matter how much you try. Don't hang yourself with guilt that isn't there."

The older man stopped, awkwardly. "… You know all this, Claude," he said. His voice remained steady, but there was an undertone of discomfort, as if he'd given in to an impulsive sense of urgency and now found himself on the other side, in unfamiliar territory. "I don't need to tell you."

Claude hung his head, hating himself for dragging him into this. Into scrambling to makeshift a crutch for someone stubbornly refusing to stand. "No. You don't."

"You're just tired."

Claude bit his lip. He nodded once, twice. He was tired, he agreed, bitterly. Tired of being so damned optimistic. His face felt itchy, and he was possessed with a sudden desire to scratch at his eyes, but forced his arms to remain at his sides.

He looked down, his gaze tracing the patterns of the rough grain in the floorboards. There was a strange twisting in his gut, as though something were stopped up inside of him, straining to well to the surface and explode in hysterical laughter.

The voice was soft. "If you want to cry, do it now. No one will hear you."

Claude shook his head, but didn't lift it. He was wrong. Dias was wrong: he wasn't tired, he was angry. A shuffling and scrape against the wood indicated the other man had left the door, was closing the distance between them. A pair of boots entered the perimeter of his vision.

"Claude, look at me."

He kept his gaze locked firmly on the ground, trying to ignore the boots. He was angry, he was still angry-

A hand reached towards him, an ungloved hand, tucking itself under his chin, knuckles against his skin. Gently, slowly, it forced his head up. "Look at me."

The instant his eyes met Dias', he felt his expression crumple.

"Aw, fuck," he said, and started crying. He became conscious of little else besides mindlessly bawling into something.

Gradually, after some time, the bawling degenerated into a quiet struggle for breath. Claude stepped back, and arms he hadn't been aware of released him. He blinked and wiped his face, rubbing hard at his eyes. The world remained blurred.

He fought to control his voice, to keep it even, to stop it from jerking and jumping like an unsteady, weather-beaten wagon. It worked better if he kept it at a whisper. "S-Sorry," he said, and forced out a self-effacing chuckle, pushing the corners of his mouth up. "This … is embarrassing."

"It's fine."

"I ruined your shirt," he mumbled to the fuzzy expanse of green in front of him.

"It was already ruined," Dias answered, then halted. "I mean- " He cut himself off with a sigh. "Forget the shirt." Hands came up to grasp his shoulders on either side as the taller man leaned down, studying Claude's face with great care. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes," he answered, but the word came out in a voice so hoarse and feeble that he knew it wouldn't convince a drunkard on a delusional day, much less the other man. He opened his mouth to try again, only to come out with a hiccup. He immediately clasped a hand over his mouth in dismay.

After several minutes of watching Claude struggle to suppress the spasms, Dias straightened and let go. "I'll get you some water," he said, turning towards the door. He placed his hand on the handle, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Claude, who had not moved an inch and still had his hand cupped over his mouth.

Dias pointed at the bed. "Sit down," he said. Claude sat.

Dias opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and eyed him once more. "I'll be back soon," he said unnecessarily, but his feet remained planted to the ground. They shifted only after Claude nodded wordlessly, and he hesitated for one moment more before finally backing out and closing the door with a gentle click.

The dull thump of boots trodding down the stairs soon faded away, leaving Claude alone to consider the quiet, threadbare room.

Quiet, not silent; this was a fact made all the more noticeable in the other man's absence. The house creaked against the tempest, shuddering and shaking periodically. Tree branches scratched and scraped the walls like hundreds of children's tiny fingernails. The wind howled restlessly, seeking shelter inside the structure. Every so often, there was the muffled rumble of thunder.

And there were his own intermittent hiccups.

The lamp seemed to flicker in time with the storm, miniature flashes of lightning in the so-called comfort of the room. It had been a long journey. He tiredly studied his hands in the dim light. His eyes were sore as hell and he felt miserable and pathetic, a sniveling, idiot child who couldn't do anything except throw a tantrum when things went wrong. And he felt horribly, disgustingly selfish. It wasn't as though he alone was entitled to this anguish. He wasn't.

He thought about the terrified children bawling in the wagon all the way home, and the three who couldn't. He thought about the mothers and fathers who stumbled home in the dark without a small hand to hold tightly in their own or a tiny body to hug against their chest. He thought about Dias, who was there beside him when it happened, who had probably seen sickening scenes like these play out countless times before he even met him, who knew exactly what it was like and more.

He couldn't stop thinking about these things. It wasn't because he was entitled to it. It was because they had to be.

He hiccupped again, exhaled a sigh of frustration, then allowed himself to fall backwards onto the bed. He cursed the brigands, he cursed the storm, he cursed his weakness, and he cursed his godforsaken hiccups.

After a while he grew tired of both cursing and hiccupping, and, reaching over his head, searched randomly on either side, came up with nothing, and finally grabbed a handful of the blanket he was lying on. He pulled it over his face, wrapping it around himself until he was curled up tight, cocooned inside the thick bundle of fabric, trying with all his might to think about something else. A silvery, sword-shaped craft drifted in at the edges of his memory, and he shoved it away. He wondered where Dias was. He wondered why Dias was taking so long with the water. He wanted to thank him for letting him be selfish.

It was dark and warm and very quiet under the blanket. The flickering light and the sounds of the storm were effectively muted, as though they had long since passed. His ears hummed with nothing more than the echo of his own laboured breathing. It would be better in the morning, he knew. It would get better with time.

For the moment, time and mornings and storms notwithstanding, he lay there and let it be unbearable.

* * *

Author's Notes: I wrote (what would become) the intro based on the "dark and stormy night" quote with a _completely_ different mood, then set it aside because I couldn't think of anything else to do with it. More than two weeks later, I went to bed and the current version of the story started to unfurl in my head, parts of it in complete sentences. 

I find it very difficult to focus on raw emotions in my writing, so this is something different and uncomfortable for me XD; Hopefully I was able to do it in a realistic manner, without getting too ridiculously emo and affected. And if not, oh well EMOOOOOOOO


	12. A Bit of Evening Music

**A Bit of Evening Music**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

He could never tire of looking at the sky; he remembered saying that once. Many things had changed since then, but this was still true. This particular evening, dusk was a glowing invitation, layers of soft violet lined with yellow, orange and pink. It drew the eyes into the deepening distance that was the end of the day, its warmth and colour beckoning onlookers to the sleep of the just.

In a pensive mood, Claude reached into his pocket and pulled out a small reed harmonica. He rested his elbows against the balcony ledge and held the instrument up with both hands, inspecting it against the light of the sky. He let his mind wander, his gaze drifting past it and into the red horizon.

He thought about its former owner. What might she be doing right now?

Sleeping, maybe.

He absentmindedly pressed the mouthpiece to his lips, blowing a round of simple chords. If one of these days he ever fell to a bandit's sword, they would surely wonder what the heck this hunter was doing, carrying around such a sorry-looking, scratched-up child's harmonica as though it were the greatest treasure in the world.

In all honesty, it was remarkable that the thing was still in one piece. It was a pretty amazing harmonica, really. It had survived a devastating shipwreck that saw the loss of a nation's most valuable technology, not to mention the explosion of its home planet. And, if it had eyes, it would have had a front-seat view to the ultimate showdown in the history of the universe, tucked into the remnants of a Federation uniform. Few people could hope for barely a tenth of the sort of stories this harmonica could tell; all the grizzled old war heroes in their rocking chairs around the galaxy would surely die of jealousy on the spot.

The balcony door squealed, protesting, behind him, causing him to halt his playing. "What's the racket for?" said a deep, familiar voice. "I was wondering what killed all the crickets."

"Hi, Dias," he replied, accustomed to the man's charming greetings. He turned his head to look back at him, at the tall figure framed in the doorway with a faintly expectant expression on his face.

When he didn't say anything else, Dias nodded at the instrument. "Where's that from?"

"This little girl in Salva Drift gave it to me way back when." He smiled and lifted the reed playpiece up to show the other man, holding it between his index finger and thumb. "I wonder how she is now; I hope she didn't get in trouble for it."

"You didn't see her there."

Claude shrugged. "I didn't really look," he answered, becoming vaguely irritated for reasons he couldn't articulate. He slid the harmonica back into his other hand. "Kids grow, you know. She probably looks different. She could have moved, since her parents were gone and all. Besides, I don't even know her name."

"Ah, yes." Dias strode over beside Claude. "The Warrior of Light: stealing musical instruments from small children, never to return."

Claude snorted at the comment, and shoved at the other mercenary, who staggered backwards slightly and smiled. "Anyways," Claude huffed, "she probably doesn't even remember."

Dias folded his arms. "You don't know that."

"No, I don't."

"Things tend not to work in neat little circles," Dias advised unnecessarily.

Claude nodded. "You know, when I was a kid, everyone expected me to accomplish all these great things," he mused. "All I wanted to do was make up stories. Nothing really came of either one."

The corners of Dias' mouth curled upwards. "Saving the universe isn't a great thing?"

"Well … It's just weird. No one really … _understands_ what happened. Except for maybe twelve people."

"That doesn't change the fact that it happened."

"No, it doesn't."

Claude fell silent. He remembered how, a long time ago, he'd spent hours in his mind combing over every little twist and turn, every what-if and might-have, every crossroad of faith and doubt that had sprung up in his journey. If he hadn't ignored orders, if he hadn't fought to go back, if he'd stayed on the Calnus like a good little Ensign … he might not have gotten lost, everyone might have been transported to Energy Nede and defeated the Ten Wise Men anyways, his father and the crew of the Calnus might have avoided becoming the target for the Wise Men's weapon …

Or maybe everyone would simply be dead. And he'd simply be one more dead body.

He looked down at the little girl's instrument, rolling it over in his hand. He never stopped thinking of it as borrowed, even though the chances of it ever being returned were next to none. He wished he could find her, that he could assure himself of the idea that she was doing okay, that he could let her know how everything had turned out. He wondered if she ever thought about what happened to her harmonica, to the oddly-dressed stranger she had approached on an otherwise unremarkable day. He hoped she would think that he was taking good care of it, that he'd earned it.

How does it feel to have a story you can't tell? he wondered. And how many stories might you have that you're not even aware of?

"A penny for your thoughts," Dias said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Claude half-smiled; there were, of course, no pennies on Expel. The swordsman had picked up numerous turns of phrase from him over the time they'd spent together, and vice versa. He looked up at Dias, and knew that everyone had the same kinds of stories.

"I was just thinking," he said, "about how things turned out."

"And how did they turn out?"

"The way they had to, I suppose."

Dias paused for a moment, then pointed at the harmonica. "Aren't you going to play that thing anymore?"

A look of mild confusion crossed Claude's face. "I thought you said it sucked."

He was met with a similarly bemused expression. "I said it what?" Dias asked.

Claude rephrased. "I thought you said my playing was awful."

"It was a joke."

"Oh." Claude ran his fingers through his hair, then chuckled quietly. "You know," he said, "We gotta talk about that."

The dusk was past its prime now, redness seeping into a deep purple. In the slight wind, above the houses, the whistling, reedy strains of a harmonica could be heard.

* * *

Author's Notes: Whoo! I started writing this just under a year ago! I have too many pieces that are just lying all over the place. This story (or at least its train of thought) jumps around a bit; I hope it's not too jolting.

These things also have a habit of taking place near or during night time. Probably because that's the contemplative time of the day, when horse riders and bandit hunters aren't busy riding horses and hunting bandits.


	13. In Perfect Silence

_**PREAMBLE: **This is a sequel to _Sometime, someplace, somewhere, wonder is rediscovered. _(The fifth Wend.) It will not make as much sense without having read the previous story._

* * *

**In Perfect Silence**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

He'd been quiet all day. 

Allow me to rephrase that. He'd been quiet all day after the unfortunate inn-horseshit-chicken fiasco of the morning. And now I will speak no more of the matter.

The silence was just fine with me. I wasn't much for conversation, not after I'd taken a good part of the morning and afternoon cleaning chicken feed off and out of my equipment. The entire day had been one long, annoying ride of stops and nuisances as I found yet more undesirable souvenirs from the earlier incident. It was well into the evening now, and I was sure there were still feathers and grains on my cloak and in my boots that I hadn't yet shaken off.

To his credit, he had been not only quiet, but also contrite, practically jumping to do any necessary chores. I barely had to lift a finger all day, which was not a bad thing. By the time I'd decided where we'd set up camp in the evening, he was already off, clearing the area, getting the fire going, taking care of the horses, making the preparations for dinner, and so on and so forth.

That, also, was fine with me. I took the opportunity to have a quick nap. This was not so much self-indulgent reprisal as it was a practical thing to do, since I usually took the first watch. But it did feel good to think of it as a reprisal.

After I woke up, I had a brisk walk around the area; it was good to get the circulation in my legs going again, while also making sure there weren't any unwelcome visitors or other wildlife surprises in the vicinity.

By the time I returned, he was sitting by the fire, mending an old shirt. I leaned against a nearby tree, arms folded, and watched him work.

When it comes to fine tasks, he has this habit of putting on an expression of intense concentration, as though whatever he's working on would burst into flames if he breathes the wrong way. I always found it amusing, and made sure he knew it.

"What does it matter if the sun goes around Expel?" I said out loud.

"No, planets orbit suns, not the other way around, although technically celestial bodies orbit each other," he replied, engrossed in his activity.

"What?" I said.

"What?" he answered, looking up at me.

"A question is generally not followed by another question," I advised.

He stared at me, and I could tell from his blank face that he wasn't really paying attention. "Oh, right," he said after a moment. He turned his head back down to the shirt, knitting his brows as he carefully and skilfully stitched the button onto the lapel and then sewed it onto the edge of his own sleeve.

He raised one arm to rub at his forehead, and lowered it immediately when the shirt followed gamely along with his motion. He looked at his wrist in dismay. "I mean, uh ..." he mumbled, mildly flustered, the needle and thread now tangled in his hands. "What were we talking about?"

I managed to work the smile down into a half-smirk. I made my way over and settled down beside him, reaching across and taking the needle out of his hands. "This morning," I reminded him, as he held out his arm obediently while I untangled the thread, saving as much as I could. "Flat earth, Expel going around the sun?"

"Oh." He scratched his head with his free hand. "It wasn't a big deal. I was just wondering." He cocked his head at me. "You're not still mad, are you?"

I pulled the button off of his sleeve with a quick, sharp tug, snapping the threads, freeing the shirt and conveniently ignoring his question. "You asked me if the sun went around Expel, and just now you 'corrected' me. Why did you ask if you already knew?"

"Yeah, well. Like I said, I was just wondering." He leaned over to retrieve the needle and button, and I leaned away.

"About," I said. It wasn't a question.

"About the level of science and technology," he replied, giving up. "It wasn't anything important."

"So Expel goes around the sun."

"Yes."

"According to your world."

"Well, yes."

"So was that the ignorant and backwater answer you were looking for?" I asked, recalling his obvious delight back at the inn.

He flushed and laughed, clearly remembering his outburst and the demented exit we'd had to make. "No, it's not that. I was just relieved."

I raised an eyebrow quizzically. He glanced at me and caught the expression, adding, "It's a little hard to explain."

"Try me."

He shrugged, and paused. "It's like 'When I heard the learn'd astronomer'," he said.

I wasn't sure if I'd heard correctly. "What?"

"Sorry," he said, and shifted his position, drawing his knees against his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. He stared out into the campfire. "'When I heard the learn'd astronomer,/ When the proofs, the figures, were arranged in columns before me ...'"

It took me a few seconds to realize he was reciting something. A poem.

"'When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,/When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room ...'"

A few feathered moths hovered too close to the fire, and I instinctively swatted them away.

"'How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick ...'"

I shook my head at him. "And that means ...?"

He looked sideways at me. "It means profs are long-winded and lectures are boring as hell," he said with a smile. "Oh, and sometimes things are better if you don't overanalyze them so much."

He spread his hands. "I mean, maybe most people believe the earth goes around the sun; there might be a few, like some scientists in Linga, who know otherwise, but it's not like it really affects your everyday life. And that's the way it should be, sometimes. If you know too much, if you know everything inside and out, it just sucks away every bit of wonder and life that something might have."

"Hm." I considered. "You're saying ignorance is bliss."

"Eh, not really." He shook his head. "That was a bad example. Understanding is important, and knowledge that leads to progress isn't a bad thing in and of itself … I mean, it's useful. But … you have to leave room for something more. It can't all just become technical crap."

He smiled. "I said it was kind of hard to explain."

I snorted. "It tends to be that way when you do so by referencing foreign literature."

He made a face. "Sorry. I didn't want to ruin the fun for you. Besides, the poem is so much shorter."

He stretched his arms. "It's like ... have you ever wondered what stars are? Or the sun? They're very beautiful and mysterious, right?"

"I suppose so," I admitted.

"They're the same thing, you know. Sorry, forget I said that. Anyways, if you really want to figure them out, and then to keep breaking them down to every minute quantity of what they're composed of … it can be pretty fascinating, but if you get too tied up in the details you lose sight of why you found them so beautiful in the first place."

He sighed. "In fewer words: it's nice to be in a world where there are still mysteries." He put his hand out, palm up. "Good enough for you?"

I shrugged noncommittally.

He pointed at the shirt in his lap. "You still want me to fix this?" he asked.

"No, I'll do it myself." I nodded at his sleeve. "Or all our mended clothing is going to end up attached to you."

He gave me a small smile but didn't reply, so I didn't say anything either and turned my focus onto the shirt. By the time I was done, the fire was well on its way to dying.

_"'How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick',"_ I heard him repeat, softly.

I raised my head to look at him, and in the fading firelight I could faintly see him shake his head slightly, then point out, up at the black sky.

I looked up. All I saw were stars, which was not exactly unusual; the night sky does have a tendency to be filled with them.

"'Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,'" he continued, in the same hushed tone. "'In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,/Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.'"

Hundreds, thousands, millions of bright, sharp, twinkling little stars. Like tiny fires, tiny candles in the sky.

_Expel is a moth,_ I thought.

It was very quiet, save for the wind and the crickets. There was a shuffle, and I felt a light pressure on my shoulder as he leaned his head against it.

I wanted to ask if that was the end of the poem, but I didn't. I simply gazed up, and together we took in the sight of a million suns, burning somewhere far away.

* * *

Author's Notes: Rereading _Wonder is Rediscovered_ made me feel that it was still rather underdeveloped (harhar) and incomplete, so here is part 2 and hopefully more understanding is generated for Claude's position without my beating it to death too much. This is my first completed attempt at first-person Dias. Hope it didn't go too badly. I know I tend to repeat myself a lot in these things, between stories as well. ; 

"When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" was written by Walt Whitman. Here is the poem in its entirety:

_When I heard the learn'd astronomer;  
When the proofs, the figures, were arranged in columns before me;  
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;  
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,  
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;   
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,  
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,  
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars. _


	14. The Woods

**The Woods**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

It may be that the trees were once carnivorous,  
eating memories and small children  
and hiding the bones beneath their roots.  
That winters starved them, turned them to devour themselves:  
ravenous beasts, sick and wolfen.

It may be that the woods were new to him,  
and his wolves were different creatures  
hidden deep away for you to uncover.  
That snow and ice stung, smothered in a manner both familiar and willing:  
demurrals banished sheep into the folds of the cold.

Once, all winters were the same.  
The trees sank their roots  
into the grounds left for the lost:  
swallowing articles, children, and time.

These are not the forests of your childhood.  
They are darker and more beautiful than that.  
These paths wind long and silent,  
shared by those restless  
who know only hunger, or dreams.

Here, then, are the sleepless:  
in the depths of the woods, yourself and your other,  
near the edge of the forest and remaining unknowing.  
Crossing one day into an older, newer continent:

a land where trees grow against the light,  
roots intermingling,  
limbs tangled, intertwining,  
giving way slowly. But surely.

* * *

Author's Notes: Same concept as _The Wend_, different angle; almost a foil to the previous poem. My aim was for a deeply surreal, fairy tale quality. I started this in early September (I think), at least a year ago, with just two lines that kept hounding me to try and built something decent around them. Feel free to guess which two lines they were.

I'm still not entirely happy with the second verse, middle-to-last section _(That snow and ice stung ... etc. etc.)_. Any suggestions are welcome!


	15. swim

**swim**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

He swims like he has wings,  
arms arcing through water and air in wide, almost joyful strokes.  
A butterfly, he calls it. I see no butterflies,  
only a boy who is a little too excited  
about wearing clothing soaked through  
to the bone. If I say this to him,  
he will laugh, and say yes, you would think so,  
and about a half dozen other words I will never understand.

In the last few years  
I have learned the meanings of many words.  
A plane, for instance, is made of metal like a sword;  
it flies like a bird, bears people away like a carriage.  
And a supernova is a star that dies  
by exploding, collapsing in on itself  
in a burst of solar brilliance  
and destroying everything around it.

I feel like I'm always learning,  
that understanding can come later.  
I don't think it was like this a few years ago.  
He dreams like he has fins,  
like water leads everywhere -  
as boundless and endless as the day the world was formed.  
I am thinking this as he returns to land,  
cold and drenched and dripping,  
smiling, sun catching with his hair.  
The words catch in my throat.

* * *

Author's Notes: _"If you have no wings, then swim."_

Randomly, I remember reading a long time ago that most peasants in medieval ages couldn't swim.


	16. A Particularly Long Winter In Cross

**A Particularly Long Winter In Cross Kingdom  
**by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

I'll tell you a story to take your mind off the cold.  
When I was a child and didn't know anything,  
I ate up fairy tales like a hungry ogre -  
sorry, I'll try not to talk about eating.  
Or food.

I stocked up on fables, the kind written for children,  
full of prancing white horses -  
(okay, let's not mention horses either – still feel a bit sick)  
- and castles, and kings. It's all fine and well,  
if you like that sort of thing.  
Especially if you're, what,  
two?

I know,  
I know. You can dream about being a knight or a lord;  
more likely we're doomed to the lives of paupers  
from birth. A hero's welcome tastes sweet –  
(I forgot, sorry)  
- but even if the world is saved,  
it begs the question:  
now what?

Hansel and Gretel (you should know them by now) were lost in the woods.  
It doesn't matter if it was their stepmother, or even their mother.  
The point is: it was a bad season. They had nothing but breadcrumbs. _(Mea culpa.)_  
So they found their way home.  
How about next year?

It doesn't matter if we've lost count of the time.  
We've forgotten about plagues and the harshness of nature.  
And poor luck, and foolish choices, and simple human stupidity.  
Oh well. Wonder how our friends are doing?  
Haven't seen them for a while. Hope they're okay.

This is simply the way of the world: things die every day.  
What can you do? It's nothing but weather.  
If we must expire  
in this endless, senseless winter,  
damn it all, then.  
Might as well expire together.

* * *

Author's Notes: Sorry about all the poetry; I guess I've just been in the mood for it lately.

How ironic that I was boiling from the summerific weather when I wrote this. I tried to do something a bit different and more direct in terms of the voice. This poem is actually the conglomeration of ideas from two separate prose Wends that I had lying around. It seemed to flow a bit easier in this format, but that might just be me ...? I still have issues with some of the lines and word choices. Comments and crits greatly appreciated!


	17. The Rebuilder

**The Rebuilder**  
by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

_These are the shadows of the kingdom of El,  
whose harbours once burst with caravels;  
a land rich in dreams, from which glories welled  
and all the delights of young civilizations were felt:  
Labour, play, worship: all were joyful._

_Here are the bones of the Warrior's Shrine:  
__a hallowed corpse now entombed in white  
sand, where glass and ivory once spiraled to sky  
blue as an eye, and crowned the steeples with light  
__against the bright day. Truly a sight to behold.  
Would that fate had allowed it to grow old  
and more beautiful in time._

_It was not written. As such, the cathedral fell  
in the face of the star. And El__  
was no longer immortal,__  
merely a scar of Expel.  
Where god's faith has fallen,  
human hands must now rebuild._

The remains are brittle beneath my boots. They look ashen and crack easily, crumbling into only so much dust. I grind it absently into the earth with my foot.

It feels gritty, even through the leather. It reminds me of bonemeal.

"The bones of a church," I mutter under my breath.

I hear a soft chuckle behind me.

"I didn't know you were a poet," he says.

Before I can reply, his comment is followed by a sharp gasp. I turn just in time to see the edge of the step collapse behind me, below him. He stumbles, trying to regain his balance, and collides face-first into the back of my shoulder.

"Walk much?" I ask.

He covers his nose and grumbles something incoherent, then raises a hand to shield his eyes, squinting at the light.

It is quite bright. The early sun lends a pale harshness to everything, giving ruins – and figures – a strange kind of halo.

We stand there, silently taking in the view. From the height of the mount we can see the edge of the ocean, the sea washing in and out, waves of translucent foam across the sand. White gulls float like clouds, barely discernable against the sky. Somewhere behind us, or below us, the master builder is scurrying about. The man is one of those scattered minds, but also, to hear the locals tell it, a genius capable of incredible feats of creativity and design.

If they say so: it makes no particular difference to me. The master builder's voice drifts to where we are, faint hollers of instructions indecipherable at this distance. His words guide the teams inspecting the remains, recovering fragments of anything that might still be useable.

The city has long been cleared of its last monster. Any remaining would be stragglers, far from the strength or numbers of the original waves that first swarmed these lands. The bordering watch towers, as makeshift as they are, ensure that there would be enough warning to muster up more than a decent fight. And soon more workers will be coming by way of Hilton: quarrymen and smiths, carpenters and masons, sculptors, builders, and others. There is no longer reason for us to stay in Eluria-on-El.

No reason to speak of. We would have already left for Tenue and boarded the first ship out, but Claude had asked to stay a while to - to explore what was left of the city, I suppose, to observe the beginning of the reconstruction efforts. As there was nowhere pressing for us to be, there was simply no point to argue.

Besides ...

It was foolish. But I did want to see it again.

Even though I knew it wouldn't be much.

Every breathing soul should see the Eluria Cathedral at least once in his lifetime. Or so they used to say. It was a common refrain even in the most backwater of villages; Tria knows the Arlian priest worked it into his long-winded sermons often enough.

Once, for me, was near ten years ago.

When I left the village, I had no real destination. Only an obsessive desire to cover a great deal of ground, to put as much distance between myself and the past as humanly possible. Eventually I would trek everywhere in my fanatical self-imposed training, and there would be little of Expel that was unknown to me.

But first, I had gone to El.

Cross spanned the largest continent. Lacour was the most powerful kingdom. Bul El was the center of art and culture, and the least of its populace were said to rival the best that any of the other nations had to offer in these respects. Eluria, its capital, was obviously no exception. And as the heart of that capital, every aspect of the Cathedral supposedly reflected that, the culmination of years of knowledge and skill, handed down throughout the generations into one glittering, multi-faceted jewel. Some said it even outshone the gods.

I'm not sure what I'd expected to find there, all those years ago. What it was supposed to have meant for me, a stupid village boy stowed away on a merchant ship, deathly afraid of being found out and thrown overboard before making it to land. Perhaps it had meant that I might find answers to questions I couldn't articulate.

Answers I could live with.

The answers, of course, escaped me that day. And the next, and the day after that. But I did find the Cathedral: found it, saw it, touched it, walked through it. Heard human voices singing, echoing through an almost endless hall and sending shivers up my spine.

And I vaguely remember being, very simply, awed.

This couldn't have been built by human hands, I remember thinking at the time. It was too beautiful; too flawless. _Unearthly._ If there were a place for the holy to settle upon Expel, it would have been here.

Now, ten years later, with only sketchy memories of how it looked and a general idea of where things had once been, it leaves me to wonder. I wonder: if it were still standing, if I were to see it today for the first time, would it have the same effect?

Or - would it _still _have the same effect?

I wonder.

I kick idly at a broken piece of carved rock. Before it rolls under a jutting remnant of the wall, I notice that it's shaped vaguely like a feather. Here and there in the shadows, the morning light glitters on bits of coloured glass.

The cathedral was filled with light from the stained glass windows, I remember. And I suddenly recall how immense they were, how tall and wide, and how rainbow flecks dappled the pale walls and floors like morning dew.

I turn my head in the direction of the path we had just walked. Where the entrance had once been, where the light-speckled trail would have reached, all the way from the innermost altar.

The temple wasn't the landing site of the Sorcery Globe, of course. But it had been close enough for the initial wave of monsters. Even now, it's difficult not to imagine it, like something out of a children's book. A sacred shrine targeted by an otherworldy evil, or however the story tends to go. In my mind, it more resembles the celestial fist of some wrathful, short-tempered and unforgiving god, smashing offending hubris into the ground. Crushing decades of human genius and toil to next to nothing in a matter of seconds.

In reality, it had been nothing more than bad luck.

So simple. Of course.

My eyes trace the edge of the ruins around the hill. In some ways, it's worse than nothing, the rubble a painful reminder of weakness, failure, mortality. It's a pathetic sight, seeing something built to withstand the ravages of time, now reduced to as much powder as its creators probably are, fully rotted away in their graves somewhere.

"I heard a story about a church made of bones, once," he says, stirring me out of my ruminations. His voice is quiet, distant. "Human bones. A long time ago."

"Is that so," I reply. "It must have taken a while. I'd think they'd have had trouble finding willing donors."

He doesn't turn his head, but I can see the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smile. "No, it was real. They were ... people who wanted to be there." He squints again, even though the sun hasn't changed. "They believed it was holy ground, and that anyone laid to rest there was assurred heaven."

I laugh. Somehow it comes out harsher than I intended. "If only anything were that easy."

"Right," he says, still looking away. "People believe a lot of things, don't they."

I open my mouth, but he continues before I have a chance to respond. "If I remember correctly," he says, folding his arms, "there was a horrible plague at the time. Even people who were dying traveled long distances just so they could be buried in the church. Eventually ... there wasn't enough room for all the bodies. That's why. They just made do. I remember looking at holos. Crosses, chandeliers - all different bones, completely white." He pauses and rubs the back of his neck. "It was pretty surreal."

I step forward, kicking another broken chunk of limestone out of the way. "The Eluria Cathedral was white," I say. I wonder why I feel a sudden need to change the subject. It isn't as though I hold any particular revulsion for skeletons. "White marble. Every inch of it was carved by skilled Elurian craftsmen. There wasn't a surface left untouched."

I reach out, placing my hand on the rough edge of a piece of the wreckage, probably the remains of some tabernacle against the shrine walls. Remembering where pillars once stood, carved into swarms of winged creatures soaring to the sky. My mind's eye can still see the milky alabaster sculptures: columns of sinuous dragons, rearing griffons, flying steeds, the most fantastic and ordinary of birds and butterflies. And more. Tangled together and climbing towards an impossibly high ceiling - an impossibly blue, painted ceiling that echoed somebody's idea of a cloudless heaven.

I stand there, wondering how much of it is really the way it had appeared, and how much of it is my flawed memory falsifying some imaginary perfection from an experience at least a decade old.

He watches me quietly. "This place must have really left an impression on you," he finally comments.

I take my hand off of the weatherworn slab. "It was a building made for show. For showing people what they wanted to see."

He looks at me with an odd expression, his face strangely drawn and tight. For the briefest of moments, I almost - almost - think he's about to launch into some harangue.

But all he says is, "I wish I could have seen it."

Below us now, I can see workers sifting through the ruins. At this distance, they all resemble one another: a group of anonymous, vaguely middle-aged men from the colony who have all somehow survived through to this day. I can't tell a stone cutter from a glass maker. Mere scavengers now, all of them, turning the rubble.

Eventually they will shape that rubble, rework it, set in the foundations again and fuss over the finishing details, every step shifting ever closer to their old livelihoods through familiar labour. Their previous lives, or some semblance of it. For however long this cathedral will take to grow, and perhaps one day stand, in the long shadow of its predecessor.

"Even if it is rebuilt," I finally reply, "it won't be the same."

"I don't know. Maybe it doesn't have to be the same." He gazes off into the distance. The sun makes his hair almost white.

I think about stained glass. Light falling through it.

"How long do you think it will take?" he asks, turning his head back to look at me.

"Who knows." I shrug. "At least twenty years. Probably fifty, or more. It'll be a long time."

He brushes the hair out of his eyes. "Not that long," he says.

_A hundred thousand hands have placed stone setting upon stone. And one by one our carvings rise: we flying, flitted, flown._

_A hundred thousand years may pass before we are complete. And never eyes within the guise of sire may we meet._

_A hundred thousand prayers are wept by paupers and by kings. And all of these in silences will sleep within our wings._

_A hundred thousand faces we have seen both flesh and gilt -_

_Stone crumbles. Flesh rots._

_Some things may be rebuilt._

* * *

Author's Notes: This is going to be reeeeaally long.

Staggered version of Dias' past, again, because I still find the "everything happened two years ago" storyline ludicrous. The "church" Claude mentions is an extremely simplified version of a real-life chapel called the Sedlec Ossuary, located in the Czech Republic. It is decorated with (NOT actually built from) over 40,000 human skeletons. You can find out more about it here: www.ludd.luth.se/silverp/kutna.html

Caravels are a type of ship.

_The Rebuilder _was originally supposed to be the 6th wend, but I took so long that it very nearly died. XD; Which is strange to say considering it isn't even that long in terms of length (this Author's Note will probably be at least as long lol). This is a piece that gave me a lot of problems with narrative (both voice and structuring), overall construction and background. I probably shouldn't have done it first-person, but I had a specific image in my head and I really, really wanted to try, although I think the level of depth I wanted is something beyond my skill (or lack thereof :P). I'm still nowhere near happy with it, but meeeh! C&C appreciated as always.

This depiction of the kingdom of El, as well as its interaction with Dias' past, is a conglomeration of ideas I've been nursing for quite a long time (I first touch on it in my AU series _If/Then _(briefly mentioned in Chapter 2: tell-a-tale). There are many truly awe-inspiring real-world stories and creations that are such a testament to what human hands can accomplish, and they are nothing short of epic. They've strongly shaped my view and interpretation of the SO2 world, and the rich feel of that art and history is something I always try to aim for ... although my success is doubtful. XD But, if you want to learn more about some of the historical/real world background that inspired my meagre attempts, please check out these gorgeous and truly fascinating books:

- _Cathedral _or _The Making of Cathedral _by David Macaulay. The latter is the 25th anniversary edition of the original book. _Cathedral _is an illustrated narrative about the construction of a (fictional) Gothic cathedral in France that was started in 1275 and took over 80 years to build (which is actually quite an optimistic timeline). The art is completely pen/ink drawings that are simply amazing and do a wonderful job of conveying the incredible sense of scale, labour and dedication that goes into such a structure.

- _Stained Glass from its origins to the present _by Virginia Chieffo Raguin - explores the history of this highly religious art form, with gorgeous photographs from periods and churches around the world. Another fabulous book on the subject (that I didn't pick up until this thing was almost done) is _Stained Glass _by Sonia Halliday and Laura Lushington, also with many more amazing reference images.

- _Annotated Guides - Architecture - the world's greatest buildings explored and explained _by Neil Stevenson - has stunning photographs (even some floor plans!) and data about the background and construction of a number of remarkable structures from ancient to modern times. Most of the ancient buildings are, naturally, temples and churches.

Of course, there are lots of other great books on art and history and architecture. And nothing beats seeing the real thing in person. Which I hope to do some day. Dammit!!


	18. Do You Count A Memorial

**Do You Count (A Memorial)**

by Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

l

_Do you count the years as they go by?_ I do. Like a prisoner marking time, I build little fences, a single post each day. But yesterday, while stirring the ashes of the campfire, I realized: the day before, when we were hunting in the forests by Lasguss, I forgot.

ll

_I added a line to make up for my transgression._ Then I remembered: what about the day we went swimming in the river by the ruins of Clik? Did I remember then? What about that day we were at the festival in Cross? Did I forget then? I remember your shadow falling over me, you taking the book out of my hands. You looked at the rows of tiny fences, the boxes, the numbers. You said nothing. Then you closed the book. You said, we should visit Arlia. So we did.

lll

_While you were laying the flowers down, I remembered:_ A thousand years ago, in mountains far away, people were buried in the sky. Their bodies were left for birds to eat and carry off. The workers would chat and laugh like it was any other task. A bird in the sky is not so different from a ship in space, is it?

llll

_When you mark time, you only mark the past._ I count the days until it comes around again, even though my calendar stopped matching up a long time ago. I'd probably be celebrating Christmas in July, my birthday in August, if I were keeping track of those things. I think the tracking counts more than the keeping.

llll

Do you remember the day we first met in Mars - not the day, but the exact day? You probably don't. No; I scratch out that sentence, correct it in my mind. _You probably don't, either._

* * *

Author's Notes: Sky burials were first documented in the 12th century, and are well known in Tibetan culture. (If you look this up on, say, wikipedia, be aware that there are photos.)

Argh, formatting troubles with this piece here. This was intended to be a poem, but ended up being more experimental than my original format. C&C greatly appreciated; I'm not completely happy with the execution.

UPDATE: February 19, 2012. About three years later, I finally get around to fixing the line that was bothering me the most. I think. I don't know. It will probably bother me forever in one way or another. Thanks for your suggestions!


	19. The Beginnings

**The Beginnings**

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

The general made no effort to hide his displeasure.

"I find it difficult to believe," he said, his expression irritable, his voice raising with each successive syllable, "that a forgettable little village, whose only other testament prior to the Fall of the Sorcery Globe was having won the Giant Root Vegetable contest at the Festival of Cross for three years running, can raise not one, but two swordsmen without equal."

"You saw them yourself at the Arms before the Frontlines," said one of the emissaries. "And at the Frontlines itself. You tell me if they are what the people say they are."

"They are skilled, there is no question of that." Gloved hands rifled back through pages of notes, of spies' reports and briefings. "Dias Flac's history is ... better-known. His family was born and bred in the village through and through. There was nothing remarkable about him prior to the bandits, which was the catalyst for his single-minded obsession to becoming the formidable opponent he is today. There are, of course, extravagant rumours that cannot be trusted, such as his unaided defeat of the Demon Bird of Lasguss. But for the most part, his story is not improbable, and it can be traced through the continents, through the people he met and the masters under whom he studied along his way."

"And the other man?"

"You've seen the reports!" the general snapped, impatient. "A near-complete question mark."

"He registered as an Arlian for the Arms as well."

"That he did."

More rifling of papers. "The villagers do know him. The mayor has spoken for him in various incidents in the past."

"Meaningless."

"Indeed. That signifies little, save that he was there, that he came to know the people."

"It all seems to end at Arlia," another scout said.

The general's brow quickly furrowed in thought. "I saw him at the Arms. I spoke with him at the Frontlines." He paused, drew his Lacourian blade, and admired its fine edges in the lamplight.

"A Lacourian sword, a Crossian sword, an Elian sword: they are all different. The make, the shape is different." He flipped the weapon quickly with one hand, catching the hilt easily in a battle stance. "The style of fighting is different."

He sheathed the blade. "You are all warriors in one fashion or another; you are all keen observers. I will not waste my breath telling you the details of what you already know. If you have learned from different masters of different lands, you will naturally begin to blend their techniques. But if you know what to look for, there are things that will always betray where you began.

"He supposedly hails from Arlia, but he does not fight like an Arlian, he does not speak like an Arlian. I do not believe he is a Lacourian, and I have never seen an Elian who wields a sword the way he does.

_"Who is he, and is there a reason he should fight for Cross?"_

* * *

You would like to believe, I am sure, that the fairy tale story of the Prince of Cross and his future Queen began and ended with love: on the head of the string, a desire to be free, freedom to choose, and on the tail end of the string, a happily ever after.

Now, I may have been born a commoner, but I am no fool peasant. I can tell you that all strings have their knots, and this string has at least two. The first knot begins before the rest of the string even does and, quite plainly, it is a complex one that consists of two very simple facts dating from long before the birth of anyone involved. One, that war and expansion are the natural birthright of kingdoms, and two, that Cross and Lacour are kingdoms.

You would be led to believe that all of Expel was a harmonious land until the Sorcery Globe, that halcyon days ended because of it. That could not be further from the truth. This is life! Had it not been for the Fall and rise of the Sorcery Globe and the destruction of El, there would not have been a pressing need for some sort of reconciliation, some sort of temporary dispensing of the traditional rules and instead a focus on a uniting of the royal families to formalize a treaty against a common enemy. And why not, what with the circumstances of the Fall of El, and the unknown, and the approaching monster hordes: with Lacour, Cross would have the military might and protection it sought; with Cross, Lacour would have the land it desired long after the Sorcery Globe was gone.

Even a peasant knows the second knot, the rest of the story. His Royal Highness refused to marry the Lacourian princess, taking instead a commoner; I have heard it said that she is a treasure hunter witch from the village of Mars, but it matters not. Would that there had been the sense to settle some of this not, perhaps, in the church ... but it was too late.

And did I mention, to add, that the union had originally been broached by the Crossians?

The Lacour royal family had been insulted. Publicly.

I understand that the Princess had been nothing but graceful in public, if a bit cold, as only expected from a lady of her breeding. And for Lacour, being the brisk and efficient kingdom it is, such things were put aside in the face of both the Arms and the monster horde at the Frontlines. The Crossian wedding was a slap in the face, to be sure, and I have no doubt it was taken terribly among the royal family - for, in my position, I have witnessed this fire firsthand myself - but I also have no doubt it was only one fish in a sea of many that had long since been spawned.

As now, there is no Sorcery Globe. There is no war against a common enemy. And there is, for all intents and purposes, no El. There is, however, Cross and Lacour. There is land. There is military might.

And as I said, they are kingdoms.

* * *

"You don't say," the visitor was saying.

"Oh, of course," the old man replied. His eyes were terrible now, having worsened greatly in the last few years. His hands were gnarled and disobedient, and he could no longer do much of the fine work for which he had been renowned. But he could still feel out the quality of a blade, and he was still very much respected. "Yes, many still talk about that final match."

"Indeed, a memorable Arms for a memorable time."

A hand, not quite a woman's but no longer a child's either, laid down two cups.

"Ah, thank you," the visitor said. "Of course you would know the champion, having forged the Lacour of Lacour. Dias, I think it was."

"Yes, yes. A skilled swordsman indeed. I have yet to see his living equal. Save for the other man."

"I must say, my memory is going. Who was the other fellow ..?"

"Ah, Claude, the younger one."

"I am embarrassed to say I was never good with names. You remember him well?"

"Of course! How could I forget!" Indeed, how could he forget; after nearly being forgotten by the modern age of Lacour, he had regained his reputation in one commanding stroke at a time most critical. His voice grew distant, reminiscing. "Ah, how long has it been since they last ...?" Nearly blind eyes searched, questioningly.

"Over a year, grandpapa."

"Thank you. Yes, over a year since they last visited."

"Both of them?"

"Ah, yes. They were familiar with each other even during the Arms, both Arlians, you know. Good friends then also. I remember, Dias requested that I forge a blade for Claude."

"Oh really? Remarkable. Rare to see nowadays that sort of cameraderie ..."

They chatted some more, about the current quality of fighters and smiths, about the tea, about the weather, the upcoming events: the miniature Arms to tide the populace over for entertainment, while also keeping Lacour's stables of fighting men well-stocked and well-exercised.

The visitor glanced out the window at the sun, and placed his cup down on the table. "Well, I really must be going. May Tria keep your health, Master Gamgee. You as well, Sufia. Good day."

* * *

There are those in Lacour who would have known these characters. The former researcher Doctor Jean, whom I had the fortune of meeting during his brilliant tenure at the palace, would have been a perfect place to start, though I doubt his unquestioning cooperation and, in any case, I understand he and his wife had long gone to El. The remaining pieces of the puzzle would mostly be found in Cross, and from all these things I have cobbled together some understanding of what the truth may be.

Now, you would also like to think, or at least, being a Lacourian, you would like to think: Lacour is powerful. Cross is large, and ... powerful, not as much. It is in essence a kingdom built by farmers, as much as Lacour is a kingdom built by sailors, the latter acquiring by force and trade its strength and scholarship. Lacour should by all rights crush the Cross continent for both the impetuosity of its heir and the due expansion of its borders.

And doubtlessly it would have, had it not needed time to recuperate from its own losses. We had lost many of our own men in the Frontlines and on the journey to El with the_ Hope_, not the least of which included the young creator of that remarkable Heraldric beast, Doctor Geeste, as well as his father and mother, two of the best researchers from the Lacour facilities aside from Doctor Jean.

And had it not had to contend with the mystery of the swordsmen of Arlia.

Cross has never been particularly known for its fighters; many of the greatest mercenaries in its employ have loyalties of birth to other lands. One master swordsman is, as the general said, improbable, but not impossible. Two? The stars must have aligned in every favourable manner imaginable. If this were true, what else might lie in store for Lacour? Are there other Arlians unknown to us who could bring catastrophe to our nation's plans? That has been my duty to uncover.

Do not misunderstand me. It is not that I bear any particular ill will to Cross, nor any endearing belief that my nation of birth has a right to more than any other nation. It is simply that I am a Lacourian, and it is simply that it is better to be the conqueror than the conquered.

It is simply that I am a realist.

* * *

"It was the queerest thing," she said. "In all my days in Salva, I daresay I never saw anything like it."

"That ... is most incredible," he acknowledged. "Almost ... difficult to believe."

She flushed, her freckles reddening. "Oh, I must appear such the fool! You must think me prone to ... to hallucinations!"

"No, not at all." He shook his head vehemently. "Those were the days of the Sorcery Globe. So many strange and wicked things were happening across Expel. Who could explain what they were seeing?"

Her flush faded slightly, mollified by his empathy. "Well, yes. Yes. It was an awful time. I must say though, it was so long ago. Sometimes I wonder if I simply got caught up in the excitement of it all and imagined everything."

"True enough," he agreed. "Having the mayor's son lose his wits and witnessing that entire kidnapping, a most stressful ordeal that must have been." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I must admit that is the first I have ever heard of it. But then again, I cannot say I'm familiar with Salva. All I know of Salva is jewels and jam. I am quite a fan of the latter, and one day I do hope to try some of Salva's famous wares. If such wares are as good as its performers, it should be quite the worthwhile experience."

"Oh really?" She giggled. "Have you ever had Salva's famous hot pepper jam?"

"No, I cannot say I have," he replied. "Is it any good?"

"It most certainly is!" she answered enthusiastically. "I highly recommend you to visit this particular shop as well."

Several more minutes of friendly exchange later, he rose and tipped his hat to her.

"Well now, I'm afraid I've kept you for much longer than any gentleman should." He made to leave.

"Thank you for the flowers." She smiled at him.

"Not at all, Miss Yuki," he said. "A singer deserves flowers. I did enjoy your performance, and hope to see you in even greater venues."

* * *

Now I will admit another thing. It is nearly embarrassing to speak, or to even think, of it - but my mind ploughs forward in its own ways, and I cannot cease its workings. I have my own suspicions about this second place fighter from the Arms of the Sorcery Globe. Why? It is simply in the face of this fact:

I have heard no stories of childhood from even those who would have claimed to know him well. Not a single one.

It is as though the very date of the ... unusual strife in Salva dates the beginning of his existence on Expel. Before that, any stories or connections quickly evaporate like imaginary ghosts, and are easily shown to be mere fancy, or somehow lacking in reality. And, in truth, I have heard other, fragmented iterations of the tale that the singing girl told me, and tales beyond that.

I have not told my commanding officer of these … suspicions. He is liable to dismiss me from this post. They would call me mad, a weak-minded fool, a babe susceptible to bedtime stories and fairy tales. And it is too fascinating for me to lose this chance to find out more.

_"It all seems to end in Arlia,"_ the other spy had said.

No. It all seems to begin in Arlia.

* * *

The man clasped his hands together and bowed his head. "May Tria keep you and bless you as well, Father Marshall." The light through the stained glass - a rare luxury for a small village like Arlia - fell gently about their feet, draping the interior of the church with patches of gold, red, purple, green, blue.

The priest clasped his hands likewise. "It is always good to see travellers of devout faith."

"And it is always good to see villages of devout faith," the man responded. "And I understand Arlia was always so, unlike many of the others that only began to turn to it during the time of the Sorcery Globe ... or began to turn away from the promise of the Warrior, as some were, lost and drifting. Some doing so too easily, in my mind."

The priest's expression grew stern. "It is not our place to judge the faith of others, my son. We do what we can, when we can. That has always been the Arlian way. Few things can be proven in the physical world, only believed with all your heart."

The man bowed again. "My apologies if I have offended you, Father. I only meant to show my respect for the fortitude of the Arlians."

The priest raised his hand. "I take no offense, my son. I only wish for the world to recognize that strength and truth can come in many forms, and many different faiths. And the shape they take can always surprise us, no matter how devout one may believe oneself to be."

"I think I understand, Father." The man nodded. "Though … it is a slightly different message from what I have heard from most other men of the cloth."

"Perhaps."

"If I may, Father, I take it … you yourself have been so surprised."

The priest smiled. "You could say that." Before the man could say another word, he continued, "Forgive me, my son. The day grows old, and I'm afraid I have duties to attend to. Please, make yourself at home in our church. Good day, and may your journey be peaceful."

The man watched the retreating form, and when the priest had disappeared into the vestry, he turned his head to gaze silently at the glowing windows. The light burned them brightly, and his face was thoughtful.

* * *

"And his father?"

"A shailor, I 'tink. Ship met an untimely end." The old man hiccupped, wiped his mouth and eyed his mug critically. "Sad shtory, but wun sho comm'n from da days of da Sorcery Globe. Barkeep!" he shouted, waving his arm. "'Nudder drink!"

Later at the inn, the traveler wrote on a long strip of paper wrapped around a carefully-sized rod. He wrote across the strips, efficiently and deliberately.

_All these to me point to only one clear answer: His father was a sailor of some sort, perhaps from El, perhaps even a captain. A story both likely and convenient. El has lost many of its citizens' records (and its citizens) from the days before the Fall. One would be hard-pressed to find any man, woman or child from El to corroborate or refute this claim. No record of his mother. She could very well have died during childbirth._

_But importantly, not an Arlian._

His report was completed. He unwound the paper, and the letters became meaningless and undecipherable. The man folded the long strip into a tight package and went to a table by the window. On the table was a small pot of jam, nestled in a cloth, and next to it sat a minute cage. Inside the cage, a fittingly small bird strutted along.

He open the cage door, brought out the animal with a trained and steady hand, tied the package to its leg with sure movements, and released it.

He watched the bird circle the inn, then fly westwards, towards the direction it called home. Where that was, a twin rod would be waiting at the other end, a slim dowel of the same diameter as the tool he had used, and the writings would become legible again once the strip of paper was round about it, and the letters were lined up.

His work was done.

Yet for the man, something still felt ... incomplete.

* * *

I could not believe my luck.

I caught up with them just as the sun was beginning to set. Their horses were hitched to the trees, and they had the beginnings of a small clearing, making ready for a campfire.

I drew my steed to a stop. "Hoy there," I called. "Would you be willing to share a bit of fire with a fellow traveller? I fear I have little to offer, but 'tis safer in groups in the late evenings."

"Sure," called back one of the figures. "You're welcome to join us."

As I neared, I took in the sight of them, gauging their appearance and mannerisms. I had seen them before, of course, but only from a distance, and that had been a few years ago. Yet I was possessed with a strange sense that, from my work, I knew them more intimately then perhaps even my own family. The taller man, dark and broadshouldered, with his mane of thick, blue hair - that would be Dias. The younger man, his fair hair now just barely long enough to tie into a short tail, would be Claude.

"I am most grateful for your generosity," I said. "Especially considering I am a mere stranger."

"Not at all," Claude said. "We travellers have to stick together."

We exchanged bland introductions, or rather, I introduced myself, and Claude introduced himself and Dias, who ignored us completely. It was all in truth pointless since I already knew who they were (how I knew!), and the name I gave was, of course, useless.

"I'll go find some more wood," Claude said, and headed off. I sat down on a fallen log and rubbed at my arms, feeling a bit of chill from the incoming night. Dias sat opposite, across from me at the selected site for the firepit, still silent.

When Claude's footsteps had faded into the distance, Dias looked at me. It was not a particularly friendly or inviting stare, and my gaze fell somewhat off to the side; I was a bit unnerved, to say the least, being so close to this master swordsman of an opposing nation.

Finally he spoke. His voice was deep and cold. "So you're the nosy little flea that's been following us all this time."

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, but I still had my wits about me, didn't drop my canteen or choke. I gave my best expression of bewilderment. "P-Pardon?"

"People talk. We have ears." He smiled darkly. I shivered inwardly, remembering that I was not by trade a warrior. Although even if I were, my reaction would likely have been the same. From the (many!) stories I have heard, I imagine even our most expert soldiers would be able to do little good against this master swordsman, much less two.

I continued my baffled act. "I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest what you mean," I said, willing my heart to beat normally.

"Oh, yes," said Dias. "I'm sure you haven't."

"I have no idea what you're on about," I insisted, silently trying to gauge_ if he actually knew, how he might have known,_ and_ if so, why was he taking the trouble to tell me instead of cutting me down?_

I comforted myself with the knowledge that my reports after Arlia and Salva had already been passed on, that my relative fortune in meeting up with the swordsmen was more for my own personal interest in a fanciful legend than anything else. "You must have mistaken me for someone else." I put away my canteen.

"I don't make that kind of mistake," he replied shortly.

"Ah, I ... certainly did not mean to imply that you have a poor memory for faces. But I assure you, I have very little acquaintance with yours." And that was completely true. I had never seen either of them in person at quarters this close before this evening.

There was a break in the grass behind us; Claude had returned, his arms full of branches. He looked at us, head turning from one figure to the other. Dias' eyes were closed as he drank from his canteen, his expression calm and unreadable; I still had my bemused face.

"What?" Claude said. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

"I-" I began.

"I hear Lacour plans on going to war," Dias said, opening his eyes to stare straight at me, then sliding his gaze to look at Claude. My stomach fell; my mouth suddenly seemed full of ash. Again, _did he know? How could he know? Was he guessing? Trying to draw me to stumble?_ My more cowardly instincts screamed at me to get up and run, that they were going to find out all that I had, but I was hardly new to this sort of activity. I implored my body to sit, and instead widened my eyes in appropriate skepticism at this startling revelation.

Claude raised an eyebrow._ "Now?"_ he exclaimed. The tone sounded more exasperated than shocked or angry, as if he had heard this before, as if it were no more extraordinary than if someone had told him that surprise dinner guests were due to arrive just after a small child had hidden all the table settings.

I found my voice. "That is certainly news to me-"

"The timing is perfect," said the older swordsman, now ignoring me completely. "The reconstruction of El has been under way for several years now, and I suspect Lacour has either not committed as many resources to the project as Cross has been led to believe, or most have returned already."

"That's preposterous," I said passionately. "In the wake of such a calamity as that we have all suffered through, it would be - it would be irresponsible! For a nation like Lacour to not realize the damage wrought upon El requires all to lend aid and support-"

"I'm sure it does," said Dias. "I believe it's called, 'taking advantage of the situation'."

There was a mildly disgusted look in Claude's expression. "With the Sorcery Globe gone, back to business as usual."

"Indeed," Dias replied.

"God, I hate politics," said Claude, with a shaking of the head and a rolling of the eyes. It was as though I was not even there.

Dias suddenly got to his feet. He brushed some of the dry leaves off of his cloak. "I'm hungry," he said. "I'm going to take a look around. You deal with the fire."

"Sure thing," his partner responded, and pulled some flint out of a small belt pouch. "Hey, wanna give me a hand?" he asked, glancing at me.

"Ah, of course." I made my way over, and assisted him in stoking the fire. It was not long before we had a decent flame going.

"Thanks." Claude smiled at me. It was completely unlike the older swordsman's expression; warm and reassuring, it made me smile mildly in response despite my nerves. One could not help but notice how clear his blue eyes were. He picked up a thin branch and began, in an almost absentminded manner, to strip the leaves from it.

"This is like a game of good cop, bad cop," he said.

"Good ... cop, bad cop?" I said, my confusion this time not an act. I had heard that he did have a strange way of speech about him; it was quite another matter to be hearing it myself.

"It's an interrogation technique where I come from," Claude explained. "The bad cop threatens and terrorizes the suspect. The good cop plays the role of friend and encourages the suspect to give them what they need, because things turn out better that way."

I considered this. The description was familiar. "Ah," I said. "It's like cat and fellow rat."

"Yeah," Claude said, nodding. "I've heard of that."

I bit my tongue; to be so careless! His manner had been so laid back and conversational it felt only natural to reply. And he must have recognized it for a Lacourian term. I wondered why he was telling me this.

"The cat is only pretending to be a cat," I said, since I could not suddenly change the topic without looking suspicious. Or more suspicious, as it would seem.

Claude smiled again; perhaps it was just my imagination, a trick of the shadows from the flickering firelight, but it seemed less warm. "Sure, sometimes," he replied.

And, I mentally added to myself, the fellow rat is rarely one either. Out loud I asked, with a befuddled undertone to my voice, "But what does this have to do with anything?"

"I don't know what Dias said to you, and I'm not going to ask," he said, poking at the fire with the stick. "But I have a pretty good idea." He looked up at me. "He's not a bad person. Just kind of surly, especially on the days when he hasn't had his twelve hours of beauty sleep." He chuckled. "Which is everyday."

"He ... did make some rather ... shocking accusations," I acknowledged. "I ... I'll try not to let it get to me." I must admit that it was becoming quite easy to put on the bewildered act, as I was certainly growing more and more so by the moment. For a second I had thought Claude knew as much as his companion seemed to, but the topic seemed to have changed to a general apology for a grouchy personality.

Claude leaned forward to adjust some of the wood in the fire, and something in his cloak fell to the ground with a light thud. I barely saw a glint reflected from the flames before it landed, and by reflex, I reached over to help him pick it up.

"Don't touch that."

He did not raise his voice at all, but the hush in his words swept over me in such a way that I froze immediately, terrified that my hand would set off something ghastly beyond all imagining. Indeed, my spine stiffened even when he reached over and wrapped his fingers around it, and I held my breath the entire minute he turned the item over in his hands, examining it, before tucking it away somewhere under his cloak.

The Sword of Light? I thought to myself. It was only when I heard him stifle a sound, almost like the beginnings of a laugh, that I realized I had whispered it and he must have overheard me. I looked him in the face; his expression had turned strange.

"No," he said, turning his head away.

"What ... what is it?"

He did not turn his head back to look at me, and I could barely make out his reply, but I thought he said, "Something that's not supposed to be here."

"What does that mean?" I could not help asking.

He didn't reply. After several moments of silence, he said, "What do you think of Arlia?"

What was this? Was he trying to change the conversation, with the goal of imploring me to sympathize for it, to spare it from Lacour's attention? If he did, there was no harm as that was hardly my decision. I did not see what would come of it, were this his ineffectual strategy.

"W-Well, I ..." I paused to consider. What _did_ I think of Arlia? I had, frankly, never really thought of it. That is, I would never even have considered Arlia for anything at all, had it not been an area of interest in my work for Lacour. There were small settlements not unlike it all over the countryside. It wasn't particularly remarkable in any way, shape or form, save for these two men that I had spent the past year and then some of my life investigating with every waking moment.

"I think it is a nice place," I finally answered, somewhat pathetically, but honestly. "Peaceful. Friendly. The villagers are good, faithful, hardworking people. But the same can be said for many of their neighbours."

"You know," said Claude, folding his arms over his knees and staring into the fire. He sighed. "When I ... first arrived in Arlia, I thought it was the prettiest place. All the lush trees, the birds, the stone-and-wood houses built by hand, the little river that ran through the middle of the village ... the beat-up waterwheel that was spinning on the side of the mill ..."

I wasn't quite sure what to make of this. He could have been describing any little farmers' town. And then the significance of his words suddenly hit me._ He had just confirmed my report_. My conclusion to my superiors was correct, beyond a doubt.

_Claude was not an Arlian._

He didn't look at me, but he smiled faintly, fondly, as if in memory of something. "Most people probably just think of it as another backwater village. But ... all of Expel, in a way, is kind of like that. Like Arlia. To me."

I held my breath. I did not quite understand what he was saying, but it sounded in all the world to me like the reminiscing of someone who had been seeing the land from the outside. Perhaps ... someone who had called nothing familiar on Expel. Perhaps I was partly blinded by my private quest to find out more about the supposed Warrior legend, and drawing hasty conclusions in spite of my training, but ...

For some reason, I did not feel it was my place to respond to these thoughts. Fortunately, it seemed he merely wanted - needed? - to talk and was not expecting a response, so my lack of words did not end the conversation.

"I thought, aside from the Sorcery Globe, you guys have such a good thing going, and you don't realize it. That's what made it so great."

He didn't stop smiling, but something in his eyes made his expression suddenly seem ... infinitely sadder.

"I know ..." he said, slowly. "I know I was being naive. I know change is inevitable - conflict is inevitable. Worlds grow up, just like people. That's the nature of civilization." He stared deeply into the heart of the dancing flames, and his eyes narrowed. "You can't expect them to play nicely forever, or blindly believe that they ever did. And I know you can't expect to halt history - or progress. And you shouldn't want to."

As he spoke, his smile had faded, and his expression had turned almost dark, almost ... threatening. "But sometimes, I do. I really do. I wish you would all stay ignorant forever."

"Back," said a deep voice.

Claude blinked, seeming to snap out of his mood, and looked up. "What took you so long?" he asked jovially, his entire countenance apparently having returned to a more usual, lighter self. "I thought you were good."

"I think I took exactly as much time as I needed," Dias replied without batting an eye.

"What'd you get?"

He threw down a pair of small hares.

"Alright, meat!" said Claude, and hopped to his feet. While Dias got to work skinning the animals, the younger man searched the leftover branches for straight ones, and pulled out a small knife to sharpen them as needed. He began to plant the sticks into the ground around the shallow firepit.

"Catch," Dias said, and tossed over a hide. Claude caught it with one hand and held it to the flames, singeing the remaining hair off before skewering it and tying it over the sticks to form a makeshift cooking bowl over the fire.

Meanwhile, I found some good rocks for heating in the fire to prepare our meal. I considered Claude's words, turning them over in my mind as I turned the rocks over with my stick. I still didn't quite understand why he said those things, but they sat like stones upon my spirit, sinking my thoughts and dragging them to depths I did not fully wish to explore.

I swallowed. "Ah," I began, quietly, hesitantly, not wanting Dias to hear this conversation. Claude had seemed a friendly enough fellow who, unlike his companion, would not sever my head from my neck if I accidentally did something offensive, but I was a bit worried, especially after his ruminations earlier. At the same time, I was filled with an unbearable desire to know.

"If ..." I said, and he looked over at me. "Ah ..."

"What is it?"

"... if Cross did go to war with Lacour - would you use it?"

"Use what?" he replied patiently.

"The ... object that I did not touch."

He seemed taken aback for a second, then a familiar shadow came into his eyes as he understood. To my surprise, he did not question how I knew - how I guessed - what it could be used for.

"No," he said calmly, meeting my eyes. The blueness that I saw did not blink.

He was pouring water into the hide-bowl now, and I added the heated rocks. The water hissed, sizzling. I pressed, astonished at my own courage, or perhaps stupidity. "No matter what happens?"

He continued considering me silently. "No," he finally said. "I wouldn't."

"I see," I said. And that was that.

We ate. It was strange and uncomfortable. We conversed politely about banal topics as though nothing had happened. Or rather, Claude and I conversed, and Dias ate silently.

Finally, after the food was gone, the other mercenary spoke. "It's late," he said. "Time to turn in."

It was indeed late, I agreed. Perhaps it was the stress of the earlier conversations, but I felt much more tired than I should have been.

"Good night," Claude was saying-

- And the next thing I knew, I was looking up at the fading stars in the dimming, brightening twilight.

My head ached. I turned slightly to my right and saw that the campfire had long since been put out. I sat up and cursed silently - I had never been that fitful a sleeper. Again - how could I have been so careless? Well, at least I was alive and uninjured, that was always a good thing.

I was about to get up and check that all of my possessions were still on me - not that I was carrying any critical, obvious or incriminating items, but still, I should like to know when I have been pilfered - when a hand grabbed me from behind by the collar, hefting me into the air.

"Halp!" I cried reflexively. "Halp- _oof!"_

I landed unceremoniously in the dirt. I protested at this treatment and was about to get up again, and had rolled over and gotten to my knees when I realized that there was a sword in front of me, and the point of it was entirely too close to my eyeball. I swallowed.

"Be silent, Lacourian cur," Dias said. "Your worthless life is spared; I promised that."

Remarkably, as I took in his words, I had enough presence of mind to realize that Claude was not there.

And that two horses were missing. Mine included in that number.

The next few moments could have been a second, or a lifetime. It certainly felt like a lifetime before he spoke again.

"Go to Hilton," he said. He never took his eyes off me as he spoke, nor did he blink. "Take a ship to Tenue-on-El. Don't set a foot back on Lacour, or Cross." His gaze bore into me, and I had the sense that he was committing every line and shadow of my face to memory. It was a chilling thought.

"If I see you again," he said, "I'll kill you."

He lowered the blade. He closed his eyes.

_"Get out of my sight."_

Needless to say, I scrambled to my feet, and started to run as quickly as my legs would take me into the depths of the forest.

I soon ceased my flight and found myself leaning against a solid trunk, wheezing and panting hard more from fear than physical exertion. I looked up at the tree I was propped against, and for some reason - the training burned into me, perhaps - instead of continuing to run, I began to climb.

And it was there, from the trees, that I watched him mount his steed, turn the beast around, could imagine him digging in his heels with a harsh command (though I was, of course, too far to actually see or hear such details), and be gone.

Despite my circumstances, I noted - out of habit - that he was travelling towards the north. The direction of Cross Castle.

I do believe I then took some time to consider my options. It did not take me long to reach my decision. I do not know how long it took to get to the next town, only that it was too long.

I am not betraying my kingdom, I thought, as I counted out the fol for the horse, which turned out to be easy enough - all I still had. How kind of them to leave exactly the price for a third-rate used beast of burden. Once I got to the port and sold the horse and the rest of my gear, I would have about enough left over for a ship's single passage fare.

But I was past the point of caring; I only needed to get to Hilton as quickly as possible. Days later, my hands ceased shaking anymore unless I thought too much about that night. I am not betraying my kingdom; I am going to El. I am going to assist the people who still need to rebuild their homes and their lives.

In the background to my whirlwind of thoughts, two voices echoed in my skull, over and over. It was many, many nights before I finally stopped hearing them in my dreams, and to stop seeing the dark crimson eyes and the clear blue eyes that accompanied each of them.

_If I see you again, I'll kill you._

_No. I wouldn't._

Though I think I would trust the younger man more and the older man less, I also think I believe Dias' words more than I do Claude's. For you see, there are loyalties that go beyond birth and birthright, as a certain prince would agree.

I am no zealot for my nation. But even without my return, and even were my full report to never arrive, I have no doubt Lacour will swiftly draw the conclusion that the two swordsmen are anomalies, and that Arlia is hardly capable of raising and sustaining warriors to fear. Lacour is a nation that moves with speed and decisiveness; that I know. I did not succeed in finding out all I wished for my commanding officer, and I have not had contact with them since the last day I spent in Salva, but I am certain my conclusions are correct. I was one of the best in my line of work, after all. At the same time ...

I know enough to know that Arlia is where a master swordsman was born, and to believe in my heart of hearts that there was where the Warrior began.

I also know two other things, which I will never reveal to another breathing thing, but from my interactions I have the suspicion at least two, at least independently, have already figured them out: why it was so critical for the generals to understand if and how Arlia was turning out such skilled fighters, and why, in time, it may not matter.

Arlia's location at the southern point of the continent, its relative immediacy to the coast, its proximity to the resources of the mining town, makes it the perfect site for the surprise first wave of the Lacour army, perfect to become a phoenix, to be destroyed and then reborn as a base for an invading army.

And more than that: that what was built once can be built again. And that no two warriors, if they are mere warriors, can be a match for the most advanced Heraldric weapon Expel has ever seen. The _Hope_ may be lying in the depths of the oceans, but its plans are most certainly not. The laboratory has long been again a flurry of activity with its own reconstruction efforts. Given a few more months, or less ...

I would not want to be near any field, battle or not, on either of the two continents should that village begin to fall to flame and sword.

I will go to El, which at least will not be touched again by the hand of war for some time, and travel to Eluria-on-El. Perhaps I will find Doctor Jean there, and perhaps I might find work as a scholar of sorts until it is over, however long that may last.

I imagine it is only beginning.

* * *

Author's Notes: Leon was alive in_ All Aboard_, but not here. These things have a generally consistent continuity, but not always depending on what I'm trying to focus on. Did you recognize all the NPCs I dragged into this? The only other nugget that might be easy to overlook is the comment about Dias' unaided defeat of Xine, which is another one of my jabs at how poorly done Star Ocean EX was. (I will be complaining about it forever.)

When I started to write _The Beginnings_ a long time ago, I had been reading a lot of historical fiction, particularly about the time of Alexander the Great. This story takes many liberal assumptions with Expel, but I have tried to keep it as "realistic" as possible within both the basic relationships of the characters and the kingdoms, as well as within the confines of my assumptions.

In today's developed world, we are so used to the idea of our existing nations and our fixed borders; for the majority of us, war is the exception, not the rule. But for a medieval society, this was hardly the case. I doubt that eternal peace would follow the end of the Sorcery Globe, and I am also skeptical that Expel was necessarily a peaceful place before its arrival. I tried to get this across without beating it over the head too much.

The "object" can be the phase gun or the Void Matter, your choice.

The next few wends will also focus around this idea ...


	20. Arlia Village Has Burned To The Ground

_**Preamble**__**: **__This __is __a __sequel __to _The Beginnings _(__the __nineteenth __Wend__). __It __will __not __make __as __much__ sense __without __having __read __the __previous __story__._

* * *

**Arlia ****Village ****Has ****Burned ****To ****The ****Ground**

By Maiji/Mary Huang

* * *

arlia village has burned to the ground  
the trees are like houses; the houses are ash.  
you laugh. there is nothing funny about this  
yet it is somehow funny, in a sick way.  
it is too late to be angry, and you are too old  
to cry like a child, so you drop your red sword  
on the ground and laugh.

much later, at night, in his sleep, he murmurs:  
i'm sorry. you look at him. his eyes are still closed.  
his hand is still black. if i were an engineer, he says,  
i could have built a shield. i'm sorry.

you touch his face, which is wet,  
and ruffle his hair, gently. you say,  
i think we've cheated enough for a day.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** This was actually finished a LONG TIME AGO, back around July 23, 2009. Well before _The __Beginnings _was finished. However, I felt it'd have more impact if I actually finished the other story first and gave the full context for that, so years later, here we are. IT'S THE FUTUREEEE Then I reread this and hated it, and it took me forever to get it to a decent point (basically deleting stuff, going away, then coming back again months later and going, "oh, I guess it's okay").

The next wend will be more lighthearted. I pwomish


End file.
